


Extending The Ephemeral

by Ovidae



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, British Slang, Falling In Love, Insults, Love, M/M, Marriage, Modern Era, snarry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-06 06:27:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18845506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ovidae/pseuds/Ovidae
Summary: The night after a ten-year reunion for his old high school, Harry Potter and Severus Snape wake up with matching tattoos and silver wedding bands. In order to prove that love overrides hate, Harry promises to extend the ephemeral and fall in love with Severus.Pairings: SS/HP, RW/HG, LL/RS, Past Ginny/HarryWill be long. Infrequently updated.





	1. Extending The Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I just love me some snarry so why not create a modern AU? And I like the aspect of actually dealing with their problems. And falling in love, of course.

 

**Extending The Ephemeral**

-One-

Extending the Reunion

 

**HARRY**

Harry did not want to attend. He sincerely wanted the past to remain the past, but he's gotten so many calls, voicemails and handwritten letters from his old school to attend.

Harry stares at all of his former classmates with guilt and jealousy. They were the graduating class of 2008. Now, ten years later, Harry couldn't fathom knowing the futures, and pasts of everyone he used to know.

He's standing in a suit (he hates suits) with a glass of cheap champagne in his school gym.

Hermione and Ron had gotten married a little over a four years ago, their fights were just as bad as ever. Harry had no idea what it was about, _but_ they were loud and intense. It was tense, even to himself. They're still standing close together and that gives him hope. Hermione leans away from Ron's cheeky comment, but hails a grim smile on her face. They speak to their old teachers, discussing research and whatnot.

Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass prance around, flaunting their worth. How does Astoria look like diamonds when she skims across the floor, leading around a child named Scorpio? They have a child. A pale, pale one too. Was he a bully? Seems not, he was relaxed.

Harry knows he shouldn't pin the actions of the father onto a child, but what if Harry's child _encounters_ Malfoy's kid? Would the kid at least try to exceed Malfoy? It wasn't too difficult to _not be_ such a fucking wanker.

Harry glances over to Cho in her delicate looks, who seems happy, laughing with Seamus. They perouse gently through the crowds. Hannah, who snuggles beside Neville after bringing snacks for two, throws her head back laughing. They own a flower shop, and have two dogs.

Everyone seems magically healed, and strangely okay with the atmosphere. It seems they are fantastically older and happy.

Harry feels like throwing up. Why did they have to come to this ten-year-reunion for school? It's hell enough to graduate, but to smile around these old rivalries and annoyances was deteriorating him.

They all seem so successful. Ron is a cop. Hermione is a physics professor at Cambridge. Malfoy is a businessman. Neville owns several businesses. Lavender took up being in the parliament. Everyone is happy. Everyone is fulfilled.

Harry seems like a fraud. His knee aches, from surgery, too.

Luna is at his side, sporting a dreamy smile.

It was an odd atmosphere. Being in the gym, being under these lights, and ceilings after a long spun period of time. The walls were the same, the odd paintings here and there looking like history and effort. The castle is still dingy, home of many nightmares and chuckles.

“Harry,” Luna says, smiling in the champagne glass. Her airy breaths and laughs blend into one as she tips her head onto his stiff shoulder. “This party drives me mad… Take me away from here.”

“Luna, you know that I can't. We've only just arrived.” Harry squeezes her arm, just to soothe a little bit of her pain.

“It's been so long since my slumber. I must return to sleep. That's when I see him, alive, alive, alive.” Luna says quietly, but people can hear her sorrow if they listen closely.

Harry could only squeeze her wrist in an attempt to make her forget. She spews poetry and deathly comments when she's sad like this. He fears he could do nothing.

“It's been three months, and I didn't even say goodbye.” Luna continues. “And this dress is too normal for my taste.”

“Normal?” Harry winces.

Luna's wearing a red dress that's accentuating her filled out figure with her blonde hair coming down in pretty waves. She looks killer.

“You look phenomenal all the time,” Harry says, being in safe territory.

“Rolf would have said I'm on the pull.” Luna frowns. “That's betrayal. And who wants to be normal?”

Harry wants to be normal, but he doesn't say that.

It's a wonder Harry managed to get her out of bed _and_ into the car. Luna hasn't really been stable— actually, has she ever? Even so, Luna's long platinum hair hangs as she smells like pomegranate and ginger, a weird combination but suits her sweet nature.

Harry wants to deny her, but Luna has been fragile. Before Harry let Luna stay over at his flat, Luna was constantly on weekend benders. He couldn't say 'no’ to her anymore, either. This scene would look rather intimate for onlookers, surely there were.

Harry looks at his watch that cost a bomb. The darkness and spotty strobe lights make it a little hard to see, but it was okay. He squints a little, his nerves, and concentration botching up his vision. Maybe it is his prescription. Did it need to get stronger—

**_8:27._ **

Damn it.

Luna and Harry stay on the sidelines, oddly floating in the dark spots of the room. They watched everyone, greeted them, and also spoke to them.

“We could leave in a little bit, yes, but isn't this weird?” Harry asks gently, trying not to let his irritation show too much.

“Huh? What's weird?” Luna asks, not paying attention.

“This…”  Harry gestures to everyone standing in party dresses, the teachers complimenting and treating the students as equals, and not to mention they have _alcohol._ Alcohol. Harry knows they would have been skinned ten years ago if they possessed gin or tonics or any of the smiles the “adults” had now.

“Life is strange. It cannot be more or less than anything strange,” Luna says, frowning lightly. She sways to the music that plays.

Harry sighs frustratedly. She doesn't get it. “Don't be such an anorak about existence… This party is off. We're seeing all these _people_ , and now we're so old. We're so wasted.”

Luna shifts to look at him, her eyes like bullets piercing through his questions. “Harry, we've only had a glass or two to drink.” She tilts her head, her serene expression switches into one of slyness. “Unless you've been sneaking them past me, Harry, bad boy.”

Harry smiles at Luna for a little bit. “I will… I will be going, to get some drinks, alright? Will you be alright by yourself?”

Luna nods three times. “Hurry back. I don't want to be alone, again. Though… I am wondering how Feru is doing.”

Harry pats her shoulder. The pet duck she has is fine. Feru screams a lot, though. Feru does kindly sit on her lap during marathons of her favorite new show; Breaking Bad.

“Feru is fine, Dobby's taking good care of him, don't worry.” Harry nods.

Dobby certainly should be _doing_ his job. Harry doesn't blame Dobby if he falls behind in cleaning the massive house because it is _huge_. Harry never really likes getting lost going to the bathroom.

Luna looks so convinced and reassured when she nods. “Okay. I release you…”

Harry unhooks her arm from his and walks away. This fucking suit is too tight. It feels like a prison. Of course, he could afford it, but couldn't it pay to be comfortable?

Drinks. Harry needs a drink. Harry keeps his head down since he ducks out of the way for everyone. Adulthood is way more stressful than he thought. And Harry's on the brink of a panic attack. Harry bristles over to the confection and beverage table. Harry lines himself up for a snack, until something warm, dark, and solid bumps into him. He gets the slightest whiff of cologne, stiff linen, and softness.

Then he reels back only to see… Him. Lo and behold the awful, corrupted, and bifter Professor Snape…

Why did Harry have to bump into Snape? Hot rage cooks Harry's blood as they level each other out.

Snape doesn't look a day older. He's a frozen statue, in front of Harry because Snape's snub, reviled, and harsh aura beats down on his shoulders. Why does it almost crush Harry like a physical weight? Snape looks identical to the teacher who tormented Harry in high school. The timeless nature of lounging in hell might do that to someone like Snape.

Snape isn't wearing a suit, Snape still has his stiff black collared long-sleeved blouse with three buttons. He looks like an unhappy vampire with his drawn together eyebrows, the line between them, and his scowling line of lips.

They glare at each other with equal intensity. Pale, pale skin, brushes of mare black hair swinging wildly. It was parted in the middle, like always. It gives Harry indignant flashbacks. His goatee is also… majestic, too.

“Watch where you're going, Snape.” Harry sneers.

Harry can't believe he has to be around Snape on what is adding up to be a terrible day. His day going from bad to worse is completely Snape's fault.  He pins that on Snape.

And Snape has this familiar curl of his lip. “Excuse me, Potter, your common sense hasn't matured at all since you do not have _any_ manners. Have you forgotten them over the pause from scholarly classes or have you forgotten you bumped into me?” Snape demands.

Snape's usage of sauve insults and intimidation hasn't faltered or shriveled up with his heart. Snape's ubiquitous irritation is meant to be felt because Harry's skin sears upon contact with Snape's hard gaze.

“I did not want to deal with more idiocy and interruptions, Potter. Especially from former students,” he sighs, narrowing his gaze at Harry.

The bitter scents of the desserts comes to his nostrils now that he realizes how close they actually are. He could see the endless depths in Snape's eyes. They draw him in. They are curiously black. Almost like the present, past, and future has achieved eternity, and stillness. For a second, Harry has trouble telling how to fall out of Snape's eyes.

Harry tears his gaze away. He doesn't want to respond or they risk creating a screaming match.

Harry looks ahead, and doesn't feel like apologizing. Should Harry? _Yes_ . Did Harry want to? _No_ . Besides, it was _Snape_ he was somehow talking with.  The senile man doesn't have a nice bone in his body.

“Have you had enough of the attention you are normally too desperate for?” Snape says casually, as if discussing the weather. “Your friends and admirers await your words in the crowds.”

“Snape, always a pleasure to hear you ruin the days of everyone your voice touches.” Harry fights the urge to curse Snape out. He has it all wrong. He never knew why his parents were famous. It never helped that they carried such a legacy before they were killed.

“Ah. Your analyses of me has improved. Maybe your time at Hogwarts High  hasn't been a complete waste.” Snape says with venom. “Congratulations for not wasting your education.”

“I'm just here to get my food.” Harry says loudly. “Not be met with a barrage of unneeded commentary. You are still the same, after all this time,” Harry instead huffs out a breath of air. “I would have rather left you in the past.” Harry ignores that they both have no sweets on their plates, almost the same cookies, and treats too.

Why did they have to be similar? Harry doesn't have an appetite anymore.

“As they say, peace is only but ephemeral,” Snape recites to himself. “It was inevitable that you and I meet here, as _I_ was forced to make my presence known.”

“Forced?” Harry shakes his head. “If being here is a pain, then who died and told you to come _here_?”

“Dumbledore,” Snape says certainly.

The nature of his matter of tone and the imposing volume shocks Harry. He nearly crushes the plate with his snacks.

“You're bluffing,” Harry's mouth is dry again.

Snape hisses in frustration, and he curls his sharp shoulders in. “I don't bluff, Potter. It is impossibly endearing you have worded it like that, boy.” he sighs. It seems as if he couldn't breathe in the air. “It's difficult to refuse an offer from Dumbledore.”

His snake-like comments makes Harry feel like Dumbledore was something more than a principal to Snape. Maybe Snape had a friend or an acquaintance or person he mildly respected.

No one could make Snape listen. Ever. It was an unspoken rule. Not even McGonagall could put a muzzle on his mouth or ways. And to make Snape's blatant aversion and antisocial behavior be twisted was a lot. Dumbledore was truly something. Harry's throat closes up. Dumbledore was good to Harry. Sirius, Remus, and Dumbledore are gone.

“Surely, you do not understand the weight of promises or the value in respect,” Snape continues, scrunching up his nose.

Of course, Harry was waiting for that priceless insult.

“It's not like the damned to keep promises.” Harry picks up a sweet and shoves it into his mouth.

“Ah, pardon me, I will be a good ghost, Potter, before haunting all those who bothered me when I was alive.” says Snape drily.  

What did Harry expect? He feels like spitting out the coconut macaroon that tastes like sand in his mouth.  

“Do I expect a visit?” Harry asks seriously after swallowing.

“I will make time to do so,” Snape sneers impassively.  

They glare at each other for a second. _I wonder why his casual comment is terrifying,_  Harry thinks for a second.  _Wait._ Harry blinks at the suggestive nature of Snape’s tone.

“I'd rather you don't. I don't want to see you more than I have to,” Harry grinds out.   

His dark, dreary eyes have a muted arrogance but an orange angry glow of molten steel. “Oh. Do enlighten me, what does the great Harry Potter want but not have? Do tell,” Snape says loudly.  

“Screw you,” Harry says and stalks away.

He's never _wanting_ to see Snape ever again. He never wants to encounter them again, dark eyes and all. He makes a b-line for the gym entrance, but crap! Hermione and Ron jump up in front of him.

“Harry lad, don't be a stranger. Why are you hiding?” Ron says loudly, clapping Harry on the back. “Why are you being so shy?”

“I'm not shy. Parties aren't my thing, Ron.” Harry shrugs a bit. He likes small gatherings where the music didn't overpower the laughter of the eight or nine people he was around.

However, Ron soaked attention all in like moss. Ron also acquired a drinking tongue near the start of his career, too.

“You, party animal Ron, haven't hit the floor yet, I'm impressed.” Harry tips his almost empty champagne glass in Ron's direction. “Good job.”

“Someone's gotta drink for two, and live to tell the tale,” Ron shakes his strawberry red hair, shrugging. His cheeks are red with the alcohol.

“You're a copper now, isn't this kind of illegal? Drinking on school campus, fraternizing, and being _happy_ here.”

“Happiness, such a crime at school.” He leans in with a conspiratorial wink. “For friends, I'm going to have to bend the rules.”

Harry grins and looks back at Luna. She looks awkward, standing alone until Neville and Hannah make their way over there, but she looks like a fish out of water.

“Have you hit that?” Ron asks quietly, gesturing towards Luna.

Coming up beside Ron, Hermione smacks Ron's chest with an eye-roll. “Ron, be kinder! You must be polite. You can't speak about Luna like that.”

“Everyone's wondering, yeah,” Ron whines.

Harry shoots Hermione a grateful look. She tips her head. “Anywho,” Hermione gives a companionable smile to Harry. “Hey, it feels like ages since we last got together. We need to do that again. We could meet at the new library that just opened.”

Ron looks mildly disgusted. “Mione, Harry wants to _have_ fun, not fall asleep.”

Harry snickers. Typical Hermione. Typical Ron. They’re going to be together.  

Hermione stands her ground and complains, “What's wrong with looking at books?”

Ron and Harry exchange looks. “Everything,” Harry laughs.

“Boys, they're loads more interesting than the movie you took me to the other month, Ron. What was it called?” Hermione asks, narrowing her eyes.

“ _Deadpool 2_ was very interesting. Ahead of its time in class and comedy.” Ron says loudly. He nudges Harry. “You've seen it?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. I have better taste.”

“See. Harry is right once again. American humour falls short with me. Too much blood and gore.” Hermione crinkles her nose.

"They've done right by the _Office_ with that Michael fellow, yeah. Not all of it comes from the bane of our existence," Ron offers. "They excel in sitcoms."

"It was the French who made that style of comedy and the Americans who changed it to be laugh tracks and bizarre gag reels." Hermione says, shrugging her shoulders. "It's not like Deadpool _was_ good."

“It was _awesome_ ,” Ron affirms, looking at Harry. “We have to catch up. Care could join a housewarming party next Sunday, yeah?”

Harry nods. “I'm still getting the hang of _walking_. Partying isn't up my alley, I don't want to smell like alcohol on my next Doctor's visit.”

Mr. Smith had already had enough.

Hermione smiles a bit. “It's the unveiling of our new flat. It's bigger and better and it doesn't have nosy neighbours.”

“It's in a gated community, with posh people and their poodles and gold,” Ron says. “It's pretty nice. It's almost as big as your space. Harry.”

“It's not a competition,” Hermione says warningly.

“If it was, then we win,” Ron grins. “We have much more land mass. It's almost on par with Buckingham, but definitely better than yours.”

Sirius gave Harry his house in his will when he died. Harry never got to live in the mansion until he was about eighteen, but ever since then, it's always seemed too big. Too large. Ginny helped make it seem cozy, but she's gone. Harry had to spend a lot of money just bringing in more furniture just to fill in the empty spaces, which there were a lot of.

“You're on, mate. If _my_ house is bigger, _you_ have to buy season tickets.” Harry leans in. “For two years.”

Ron grins diabolically. “Deal.”

Harry shakes hands with Ron with Hermione smiling out of the corner of her eye.

“So, you both are throwing a party. That's unexpected,” Harry says, mostly to Hermione.

Hermione gives a short but fiery glare to Ron. “It's a _gathering_. We've thrown enough parties to last three lifetimes.”

Ron chuckles and awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. “You can't deny that they were fun. You do remember what that is, right?”

Hermione huffs and looks away.

While the trio were in their early twenties, Ron threw huge blow out parties that would put frat parties to complete and utter shame. Hermione used to hate them, but they lived apart, so Ron took it as an opportunity to do what he wanted with their flat while she studied in Oxford.

It made a cold war, and Harry didn't choose sides. Ron was training to be a detective while Hermione was slaving away in residence at Oxford. That put some good distance between them. And less rules on Ron since Hermione wasn't there to quote “shut down some of the fun”.

Ron slings an arm around Hermione, and plants a kiss on her temple. “Like Mione put it, it’s _not_ a party. We moved closer to Cambridge. It's almost an hour commute away from my workplace, not that it matters anyway.”

Harry looks at Hermione's bleeding disapproval for Ron's passive aggressive comment.

“Ron…” Hermione says quietly. “It's a good deal.” She shrugs his arm off. “And you know it.”

“It's not my name on the lease. Is it?” Ron asks. “I could chip in.”

Something in Harry's stomach drops. Which is _so_ weird.

“Let's not talk about this, alright?” Hermione says quickly.

Ron doesn't blink at the small plea, and continues to speak to Harry. “Harry, this is your chance to bring a plus one.”

And they're back to Luna. Why must they talk about her?

“No. She lost Rolf three months ago… I've taken her in since she seemed to be on a downward spiral. I'm a friend,” Harry amends in his firm tone. “I will only just be _a friend_.”

“Really?” Ron seems skeptical. “Friends don't lodge with each other for months at a time.”’

“We _were_ bunked together for months at a time,” Harry points out.

Ron shrugs lightly, still a playful expression on his face. “You know it's not the same. We're mates. You and _Luna_ could be more. You never know?”

Hermione smiles. “Harry, why haven't you visited? Molly and Fred miss you.”

“Ginny… probably doesn't want me near the family.” Harry swallows certainly. Stupid emotions, making his eyes cloud up.

Ron and Hermione exchange looks. Quick ones. “You're always welcome. I swear to that, Harry, Dad and Mum miss you. You could even come back, sometime soon to visit.” Ron says certainly. “And if Ginny doesn't like that, then that's her problem.”

Harry rocks on his heels. He knows he's been distant, but he has reason.

“I can't intrude, you know? I am recovering from a knee injury _and_ not to mention that you guys might have to make space for three,” Harry chuckles half-heartedly. “Right?”

Ron stiffens and gave Hermione a knowing look. “Yeah, Mione, when are we making space for three?”

Hermione's cold stare levels with Ron's. “We mustn't speak about this now.”

Harry stands there, eyes wide and glass shaking. Oh. Oh. He isn't supposed to be here.

“No. Harry should know when he's going to be an Uncle.” Ron says loudly. “He should know if he's going to be an Uncle.” Ron insists, meeting her hostility head-on.

“Shouldn't Harry _wait_ and be patient before a child is brought into his life? Is Harry's role as an uncle solidified since the father _may not_ be ready?” Hermione shoots back, unflinching in her heavy stare.

The three best friends plunge into silence.

Sparks go off between them and tensions are high. Harry wants to sink into the floor. So, this is what they were arguing about. Kids. Harry, no doubt, wanted _kids._ Little ones with his eyes and dark hair. He wants a house full of children. He never thought that they wouldn't have kids. Ron had always wanted kids, to be surrounded by people and others.

Harry looks around, eager for an escape this violent warzone. “You guys— I'm fine with whatever you're fine with… don't think I'm hurting for a nephew or niece.” He waves his arms. “That's fine. Don't mind me.”

“No. Harry should be involved,” Ron says. “He has a right to know whether not he's wasting his time wondering.”

“Ron, you know we can't talk about this in front of others.” Hermione holds her temple.

“Others? Harry isn't others. Harry is _family_. Harry should know if he'll ever have more family.” Ron interjects loudly.

“Harry, uh, have you heard about how Professor snape has a new job—” Hermione says at the same time. Harry is about to open his mouth but Ron makes an indignant noise.  “Ron! Not now.”

“I want to talk about it. We're all friends here, yeah, Mione, he has a right to know. I think that this is a prime time to speak about this since you never want to,” Ron fires again.

“No, no, guys, it's fine. I really don't want to know. Life is oblivious and Ron, we get on not really knowing much,” Harry desperately says. “Hermione, we could talk about the old, stuffy teachers. Snape is perfect. Perfect.”

They're both staring at each other with such buried anger and aggression, another cold war between them.

Harry struggles. “Guys, let's talk about the weather, that's something new.” he snaps and reveals a smile. “Yeah, let's talk about the black ice cream that has coal. Coal cleans teeth… Guys ?”

Hermione gives an apologetic look to Harry then smiles softly. “We must excuse ourselves.” she says with a huff. “Ron can't control his tongue.”

“There's a 'we’ again, and it's my fault again. Neato,” Ron crabs as he turns away. “We'll be back to finish this arrest, Harry,” Ron stalks off off.

Harry and Hermione experience a lapse of quiet and inaudible commiseration.

“Instead of being a cop, battling evil and crooks, Ronald would have fit quite nicely in a theatre,” Hermione says drily. “He's always one for the dramatics.”

They both smile at each other because Ron is dramatic at times. They know him too well but that wears off. They stare at Ron weaving through the crowd and near the gym entrance. He swivels on his heel, just to make sure that Hermione is on her way.

Harry is nervous because his friend does have a reason to be angry. Hermione hasn't told him whether or not he wanted _children._ That's a huge factor. It was a no-brainer that Ron wanted kids since his parents had close to nine children.

“Are you both… alright?” Harry asks quietly.

He knows the answer, and he wants to say it, but he just wants them to be okay. To just be what the answer isn't.

Hermione looks back at Harry. “He's madness and strife, at times,” she swallows, “but I love him. I don't think I'd let him take his life out of mine, nor would he do that for me. I have to go speak with him because I love him.”

Harry nods. “Go get your man. Straighten him out a bit.”

Hermione gives him a tight, half-hearted smile then turns before looking over her shoulder and saying, “You have to be neutral. I don't want you to hate me like Molly and Arthur do, too.”

Harry shakes his head. “I could never hate you or your choices, Hermione.” he says honestly. And it's true.

“Thank you. I count on that,” Hermione nods twice then lets out a resigned sigh. “Wish me luck, you have way too much under your belt, mister.”

Harry secretly disagrees but lets her pratter away. He's an orphan, his family hates him, Ginny left him, and now he messed up his stellar career by getting a knee injury.

Her shoulders square, her chin is held up high. Hermione reminds him of a proud soldier marching into battle, still proud even though the soldier doesn't have the slightest clue of how the battle will end.

And that is brave.

He was never like that with Ginny. Maybe he should have fought for Ginny more. Ginny experienced his worst days. He got into a car accident and his knee took most of the impact. His career was over.

Over.

And his life is over.

And Hermione and Ron are going to be screaming in the dusty hallways, echoing.  Harry can’t take this anymore. There are a bunch of people who are happy, strong, and calm and he’s recovering. He slowed down, he let up. And that tears into him.

In high school, he felt on top of the world. He was healthy, meeting scouts and having Ginny at his side. Everything was right. Ron and Hermione slept on each other in the common room. Sneaking off of campus, looking around in the dining hall, and stealing more food. The readings and discussions going off topic and everyone knowing everyone’s secrets.   

Everyone is so different. People are so successful and he still feels the same.

He was on top of the world.  

Fuck. He can’t even look at anyone in the face. Why does life turn out this way? He shouldn’t be thinking like this.  

Ten years later and he still feels like a kid, throwing his cap up and having the world at his hands. Now, though… he is utterly, utterly hopeless.

×××

**SEVERUS**

It's routine, to drink, to remember, and float into amber happiness of bourbon or the fleeting happiness in looking at red heads. Severus finds the solace in the bottom of the cup and redox reactions equations. His mind and logic rebelled against his body. But loss. Ah. The unexpected tightening around his throat and warmth spilling out of him isn't his blood or hoarse voice, it was fate.

Stop thinking about _her_!  Focus on tangible. Concrete things…

Like the scenery.

It's a pretty neat bar, but Severus didn't know there would be this level of _young people_. It is near a college, and people know how to drink. They throw back shots down their elastic bodies, knowing that they're young enough to go through many more without feeling it.

Severus feels out of place, from another decade entirely. The walls are dark, the lights dimmed, and there is a touch of medieval flare to it. The people make it lively and vibrant.

They're all with their friends, happy, not so happy, and happier than they were minutes ago.

Do people act way less intelligent when feelings are involved? Severus shouldn’t expect great things anyhow, life is about failing to meet expectations. Now he's on this third bourbon and it's only been _about_ an hour.

He feels like applauding the bartender for filling up his glass this often. He does clap to get a new drink, but tonight it seems like he's _drinking_ too much.

He spent a lot of time as a teacher, and he loved teaching. He hated the children, somewhat. They don't appreciate the sciences now that they have devices. Not that students paid any attention when _there weren't_ phones, but they were more creative in how they were distracted.

Now life seems dulled. Alcohol doesn't help anymore, either.

He puts his glass down. What has his life come to? He's going to be teaching in another city. Hogwarts didn't want him anymore. He hasn't gotten fired, but he feels himself stagnating.

It's summer break, he's all confused, and now he's not sure where to go, or who to be. He isn't able to come up with a reason why he checked out.

And he's directly near the liquor table, staring at the filled bottles, and sparkling lights. Harry Potter shows up, looking lost, with a slight grimace on his face. He accidentally shifts, and Severus notices him once again.

They size each other up, unfortunately alike in the same manner that they don't trust people easily. Potter has a frustrated expression on his face.

Harry Potter says; “Don't start. You're _drinking,_ and I'm drinking _—_ ”

“Are you sure you have the mental age in order to drink?” Severus queries.

“ _Don't_ start. We might as well be adults, and _be_ mature about this…” Harry Potter says loudly.

 _Ah. We could be adults everywhere else on the planet, at any time, and he decides to be on here? Potter, you give me a lot of grief,_ Severus admits to himself.

Severus tries and tries not to be _too_ shocked by his glaring resemblance to James and Lily.

Bright green eyes. Wash of freckles. Wash of beautiful. Wash of life. Wash of life on her face.

 _Go away._ Severus concludes. He doesn't know why it's so damn hard to blink away the image of Lily from his brain.

Why can't everyone go away?

“You and I both escaped from that reunion. Where are your companions, Miss Granger and Mr Wesley? Couldn't they join you?” Severus asks, tongue sloppy in his mouth.  

There's a dip in the music _and_ the quiet. It's like the world hushes its children to watch Potters perform and live and respond.

Finally, Potter breaks the trend, and the noises begin. “They're married.” Potter says guardedly. He seems really unsure of that fact himself.  

Severus stares at him. “And?”

Potter stares.

“Like it or not, you lot are a pack of children to me.” Severus rolls his eyes. “I don't care about nuptial affairs concerning my former chaos walking named students.”

Chaos they were… Kids slobber a lot. The smaller, young ones. Where they all where was a battleground for germs, and perchance the remission of _the bubonic_ plague. But it seemed fun, to be careless, you know?

Potter doesn’t bother getting a new mask of tolerance and clemency as Potter's eyes shine. His cross, crinkled, and tight expression reminds Severus of aluminium foil.

Potter's eyes flush with anger, eyebrows twitching.

For a moment, this scruffy and younger James peers down with him like the fear of _God._ With Potter’s brogues, his thick hair, he's the spitting image of James right before an attack. Because kids _need_ to bully others, and eyebrows are also curved, vivid storytellers of their own right. Everyone forgets that.

Severus recognizes that twitch on the eyebrow, just like his awful father. That twitch always appears as a visual _assurance_ Snape was going to sleep on his stomach or side if more of the Marauders were there. He had to shield his stomach, genitals, and face, yeah?

But Potter's eyes are also what gets him. It's the color red that's missing, but green that captures the mild sadness in Darling Eyes Lily when he was rejected. It also has the streaks of anger when Severus retaliated against James. It's full with difficulties.

Then James does something completely different from his cretin self, he gets black hair and he's not wearing his glasses and he's… way more mild compared to the him of yesteryear.

It's Ja _—_ _Harry Potter_ , actually. Relief soaks up his concern and fear. Slowly, Severus's heart stops doing that thing when it beats too much.

“Call them what you will with their proper names but don't _expect_ me not to correct you.” Potter says, voice less harsh that his predecessor.

Potter seems philistine but obviously older, educated, and flamboyant. With the light shining over him, reappearing like an entitled leech, he looks sort of useful to society. He oftens dreams of being at the top. He’s been a football player.  

“When have you been right, Mr. Potter?” Severus hisses.

Grades are usually an imprint of studying habits, of which Potter has none, and just how much loyalty and determination one has to furthering themselves. Harry Potter never cared about _chemistry_ or anything he taught at his school. He was careless.

Potter's arrogant eyes roam Severus's face. “They're married, Snape. That's what I will always be right about!”

“I don’t care.” Severus whispers.

“I care.”

"Care more about dying children, world peace, and the oceans that may boil your further generations. There’s more than worrying about yourself or marriage, for once.”

Silence comes in between them. It’s overshadowed by how the music, jaunty, jovial and jolly seeps into their mood. It’s quite odd for such a transient place. It's crowded. Why is Potter still here?   What was he waiting for? An invitation? He won't get one.

“You’re like a tourist asking me where they filmed Notting Hill. Go.” Severus says loudly. He's on a narrowing line.

“I will never take you anywhere, not _Portobello Road_ , not even a garage sale.” Potter says quickly. He brightens. “I would take you to _Kent_ but only because you can't tell me what to do.”

Sourness fills the empty spots of his mouth. Disappointment, was it? Potter sits down, realizing there were no other places, and he was too much of an impatient gentleman to wait and stand around.

“Ah. Potter, do you hear that?” Severus says casually. Severus pretends that there is some _beautiful,_ heavenly sound that Potter is much too loud for.

Potter adjusts his slouching body then smiles, listening like he almost died.

He even slows his breathing, leans in. “Hear what?”

“The sound of my disapproval. Please go sit somewhere else.”

Potter looks over to Severus, smile dropping. “Actually," he pauses and dips his head to the music. “It’s a good song. That’s the sound I hear…”

“It’s not a song, it’s a feeling in the air.” Severus looks over.    

“Huh?” Potter asks loudly.

“The _loss_ of the ephemeral peace. Me without you is me with a smile. Go away, Mr. Potter.”

Potter has barking laughter. “You don't even smile! At all.”

Severus frowns— then he catches himself. Little bastard. Potter has a loud, fog-horn laugh. It's so loud, and he doesn't care. 

Severus frowns even harder. Little cheeky bastard. 

“This is all too weird. Has anyone told you that you are a terrible man?” Potter asks loudly, wiping away tears from his rambunctious laughter.

Yes. Many times. But he doesn't care. He just drinks. Maybe those pints have flooded his small brain. 

“My dry heart spurs on stubbornly. Its revolutionary that you have indeed gotten a red herring because you are not going _away_.”

Potter grins over the edge of his shining cup. “You will sincerely know this; I want a pint without violence, or your comments annoying the arse out of me.” Potter says, swallowing his alcohol, still elastic, still young and vibrant. “The beer is dark and the locals are friendly. I will show you _life_ of someone who is less terrible, Severus Snape.”

Potter slams the glass down. He ignores the cue and shouts for another drink. Severus is _horrified_ because the stage lights dim not only for the Potters… but for Severus, too. Maybe Potter has some shades of _terrible_ in him, too.

The lights go out together, on the both of them. 


	2. Extending The Hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Severus start waking up to new body designs.

**Extending The Ephemeral**

 

-TWO-

Extending The Hurts

 

**HARRY**

 

The world is a little warmer than usual. Harry’s arm burns and stings like there are calculated bee stings with needles. And his head. Fuck. Why does he feel so… awful? He smells the booze and understands.

He got drunk.

Harry wakes up to a very unfamiliar scene, breathing in a scent of another. It smells like weeds and flowers, which is weird since it's on his pillow.  It's… all over him, calming him down. Reminds him of morning practice. He takes a moment, to pause, and breathe in the spirit of the person beside him.

It's like a sedative, after the _accident_ _—_ but he doesn't want to think about that so early, when he wakes up.

Did Hermione come upstairs and do _something_ like leave little tea bags under his pillow? She used to leave momentos and small items under his pillow just so he wouldn't forget something.

Harry's house was essentially her house since she came in and critiqued and fixed everything. He didn't like when she did it but a woman's opinion on some domestics could help in hookups later on. That and she'd shriek at Harry like a banshee if he didn't let her do whatever she wanted. Since she “knew” best.

Even at 28, Hermione still has this forcefield of power over _him._

A throng of thoughts divulge in Harry's head _._ One part screaming about how bright it is and how loud every sound is, even his panic attack, and one thinking…

Oh crap, is it Hermione beside him?! That's like _kissing a sister_ or an aunt—just. No. Oh. Ron's going to kill him—

Then Harry opens his eyes, not sure if he _was_ actually hungover or the giant of fatigue and acute pain stepped on his every atom and hydrogen bond.

But his nose is nudging baby hairs that have the dried residue of sweat, spindly yet sweet. There’s greasy hair, a black forest of locks with little spritz of _white_ involved and… oh. The pale, pale, skin that is oddly imbalanced with _shades of red_ , bruising red around his neck and the line of his thin shoulder blades. They look like broken angel wings, sheared off by someone who was jealous.

And that's beautiful, in some beautiful, broken way that's twisted.

But Harry's twisted and apparently the swell of his hardness agrees. He was desperate, he thinks, and drunk. Really, really drunk. And it's a man he drapes his arm over all night. That's a mild tenth. He's done a lot of _experimenting_ in college.

But right now, in a string of useless lovers, social and bedridden acquaintance in the pursuit to ditch the tension _and_ depression, Harry's slept with a man.

Fuck.

The curves they lack, the flat ass, the hairiness they've got, the length of their hair threw him off, but guys have that arrow pointing down their necks. Not to mention they're more muscular and have more bone associated with their thighs.

Pressing flush with the smoothness of the man's long back… Harry is kind of the backpack rather than the _big spoon._ And the slight snore that he's heard in the dorms from when he was a kid— all confirms what he knows.

Their snores don't bother Harry as much as they should.

It's nice to wake up to someone, but even better when he knows it won't be the awkwardest thing. There's supposed to be the relief, that they fucked, kissed, and he's okay and they're okay. But he has no way of knowing.

Harry's large apartment that's too big and broad has the vaulted ceilings, the large windows that allows someone to look out into the daily life of the world. The bed is too tiny…

Harry fights the sparking urge to recoil, since it would be risky and awkward if he suddenly jerked away from the person like he has a plague. But _would_ it be? Does Harry have to cater to the wants and need of another, risky, odd hook-up?

It's not like they're ever going to see each other again. And besides… greasy, black, hair and fallen angel—

Oh, bloody balls wrapped in shit from across the pond. He knows who it is. And Harry does _any_ rational thing that _any other_ person would do; he hollers.

Then the groaning from the guest's side begins. “Jamie, what is the meaning of this—”

“Who is Jamie?!” Harry inquires with more volume and force needed to wake his guest from slumber induced _disorientation._

After a brief moment, Harry's guest sits up. _Panicked_. The sheets pop up in their fabric wistfulness then float. Float then sink, like an ocean tide receding, revealing his guest.

And there's no doubt about it. The craggly nose, the sickly pale skin with a gray hue in the winter, the night hair that is too long,too rugged, too wrong to think about. Really is Snape.

Harry has a slow burn wait _until_ it clicks. He sees Snape in pieces with memories.

The chiseled jawline, beard in a neat goatee, delicate high cheek bones on both sides of an unattractive nose. The nose he would huff out of when Ron or someone said something stupid, which was everything (in his uppity opinion). And his thin lips he constantly wets, wets, and wets because he's always a snake _hissing_ comments that weren't needed. His nimble hand was like wind when writing notes on the board, his also high-raised eyebrows constantly drawn together in frustration or dread, or both.

He wore billowing capes, it was almost as if he could hide a _galaxy,_ but hid a relatively lean man with little meat on his bones but was still appealing in an abstract way. It _pinches_ Harry's mind.

What the actual hell is going on?

Both of them barrel out of bed, Harry landing on his knee which elicits another pained cry, but Snape doesn't hear it or just outright ignores it. Harry puts his huge bed in between them. He's so lucky he fucking listened to Ginny that one time when they weren't screaming their heads off about buying a king-sized bed with only two pillows.

Ginny… After she left, she took all of the pillows and the mug and the football shoes he wore when they went on their first date. That was cruel.

But Ginny's far from his mind as another lover— not lover, _person_ is on the bed they shared. Well, he's panting, disheveled in appearance since they both got up from the floor.

They stare at each other in varying degrees of horror. Unblinking, like they're at a crime scene. Actually, this truly may be _a crime scene._

Shame and anger and repressed feelings build in the next shout; “Snape?!”

“Potter?!” Snape demands, veins bulging.

They yell out at the same time. In sync. It's gross and slimy, makes Harry shudder like an eel.

“Why are you in my house?!” Harry quizzes again.

“Why are you naked?” Snape snaps with a ice and venom inserted in the blade of his tone.

They don't make sense to each other because they're both trying to talk over each other.  

Outside of his shame, logic comes back to Harry's heaving body. Snape's hissed comment registers in his flustered mind. He's still naked! They tumbled out of bed, shock overriding whatever embarrassment they could have. He is aware of their naked… lower… halves.

That means— that means Snape is _naked_ too! Harry dares not look. Why is it so cold suddenly? Damn his arm, damn it. Why does it feel so _weird_?

He tumbles forward to get a blanket, anything suitable to cover himself… Snape has the same half-baked idea and _scrambles_ with the same ferocious purpose.

He's so dumb. He's so— what was he thinking?

Their shaking fingers grab the same blanket. Their narrowed eyes shoot up at the same time to give death glares. Snape looks like he's about to fail a kid, nose upturned and mouth frowning and Harry wants to _punch_ him in the face.

It's Harry's home, his blanket, why the hell does he have to share it? It's _his._

The tug of war begins, Harry growling, “Snape, give me the damn blanket!”

Snape pulls it towards him, with a strength someone of his frail frame _shouldn't_ very much have. “I want it more _and you_ certainly have no qualms in not keeping your dignity. You don't need it more than me—”

Between the distant bobbing of _something_ and the yanking and pulling, Harry can't think very cohesively.

“Don't tell me what I need!” barks Harry with a grimace.

They go at it for a full minute (or maybe just fifteen seconds, Harry can't tell), the white sheets almost torn but Harry grits his teeth. _This twat! This twat acts like he owns my fucking house!_ Harry seethes.

But Snape wins the battle when _Harry's shoulder hurts too_ much to continue a non-verbal war. A secondary wave of relief (repulsion too) hits Harry. Since Harry  finds goodness in Snape being covered up.

He could finally look at Snape's face without a strain of curiosity of _elsewhere._ There's that repulsion building at the back of his throat, or it could be vomit. He should vomit.

He's so surprised that Dobby hasn't come in to _find_ him like this. How would he explain it to him? To Snape? He can't even explain it to himself! Snape has the decency to turn around while Harry prances around, not coordinated since he's still _questioning._ And angry.

He's grumbling about blankets when he finds the longest towel, and puts it snug around his waist. He eyes Snape, who _hadn't_ watched him, but maybe would have, he's always been nosy. His nose is huge, though.

Of course Snape _entraps_ himself in the rumpled sheet like a cloak. Snape is a bat from hell come to haunt Harry. It's making Harry laugh quietly in bitterness. How did Harry end up here?

Harry uses the hardwood floor's warmth to ground him, call him back to earth and calmness when he turns to face Snape properly. If a massive bed wasn't between them, they would have strangled each other. Maybe blood would drip off of his arm onto his rugs.

They both have overt anger issues. Harry can't deny this.

A dark cloud over Snape follow him as he levels his black eyes with Harry's. “What? If you intend to squabble like the olden days, by all means enlighten me.”

Harry's mouth is cotton and _desert winds._ He keeps on staring. He wants the words to come so badly but they don't.

Then Harry asks; “Why are you here?” when Snape does in sophisticated language.

Then Snape is _an atomic bomb_ once again _,_ “Speak properly! Don't speak when I am speaking!” he shouts, fists balled.

There would be Harry _everywhere_ in his room if his bed wasn't so colossal.

Harry can't handle it anymore! “Why don't you stop yelling at me and EXPLAIN what the hell is going on?” Harry claps his hands together, throwing them up in exasperation. “Why aren't _you_ across the pond, why are _you_ in _my_ bedroom, Snape?!”

Then Snape's whole disposition changes. Horror and astonishment flashes through his marble-like eyes... “Whatever in all the demon's manifestation is on your arm?!”

What type of insult is _that_? It's old-timey, like hearing a veteran swear at a roaring 20's pub.

He, somehow by some unholy miracle, pales even further, giving him a green tint. “What is that?” Snape continues to freak out.

“Sir Smartass, I must say I am shocked, you don't know what a hand is? How did you go through life without that pertinent knowledge, eh, Snape?”

“No, you insolent, egregiously pompous fool- what's on your ring finger!” Snape hisses. Then he gesticulates to Harry's wrist. The inside of his wrist, where it burns. “What is that?!”

Harry drops his hands like he wants to amputate it. And for sure, it's _a tattoo_ of the blocked text…

**SEVERUS**

**EPHEMERAL**

And a silver band. A silver one, just like he wanted, the one he wanted to give to Ginny. And it's on Snape. It's on both of them.

Emotion slows Harry's reaction to when Snape shrieks and _has_ the similar but belated reaction.

“Harry James Potter, what is your name doing on my arm and wedding band?” Snape demands.

“Oh. Fuck,” Harry whispers. “It's on you too.”

He throws a murderous glance Harry's way. “I believe the heavens are grateful, God is applauding your astute observation, Potter.” Snape says quietly.

Harry stares at his tattoo and Snape's name. “You don't have to be a prick about this—”

“Potter, what have you done _last_ night?” Snape clenches the sheet so tightly, that his fingers are red.

“Me?!” Harry throws back. “We both have equal blame in this!”

He shakes his head. “We do _not_.” he shouts.

  
There’s a quiet, so silent that the only thing Harry could hear is his blaring rage. It’s a moment where Harry’s face contorts, and he’s watching Snape with his awful resignation, denial of the circumstance. He looks… calm. And Harry hates this. So much. He could barely contain himself.  

“What the fuck! You and I woke up in the same bed, and you’re acting as if this is normal!” Harry yells. “Why are you acting like this?”  

Snape stares at Harry, and there’s nothing.

“You do not understand the magnitude of this situation. How can you be so calm, so in denial of what the hell just happened?!”

“If you were observant of my state, you would know that I am in shock. Your boundless problems has made _it_ into my life!”

“Screw you, Snape!”

“We seemed to have _done_ that already. I do not want a repeat.” says Snape, shrugging in a blasé fashion. “Of course my day has to start out with Harry and his faults and the tattoo and—”

“I hate you, Snape,” Harry yells.

“Why wouldn't you, it appears to be that we are married, afterall?” Snape says in a tone so bitter, raw coffee beans and _ashes_ settles in Harry's mouth. “All relationships have the undercurrent of tolerance and hatred as happiness is the absence of pain.”

“Fuck you,” Harry says then rushes to the bathroom. This can't be true. This cannot be! He refuses for this to be stark reality. He didn't mean to _have_ him in bed. Holy shit.

He splashes cold water in his face, the chill settling in his bones. He can't feel his fingers and cheeks by the seventh splash. There's a mess on the counter and floor and he even has _hickeys_ on his shoulder.

Oh. Oh. _God._ What has he done?

×××

**SEVERUS**

Because floundering across the room, gathering clothing thrown across the floor wasn’t enough to wound someone’s dignity, waking up to someone like Potter was killing Severus.

Severus does not want to feel the rolls of hurt in his stomach and head when furiously putting his clothes on.

Where is Severus's  other sock? Does he need it?! Why is his taste in people so bad? What is _wrong_ with Severus?  

This is by far the worst day Severus has ever had. Ever.

This isn’t comparable to the time when Tobias broke Severus’s chemistry lab bocals on his birthday, when his mother and him waited in a homeless shelter and she was too tired to cry or live or die, when Lily Darling Green Eyes and Potter kissed in front of the whole school and said, “Always,” and that prat got Lily pregnant.

No. _No_. It was waking up, to the breathing and scent of Harry Potter… and marrying the man and having to remember flashes of bourbon lips, thighs driving him wild, and the fact that he has a tattoo. He’s covered by traces of last night. His fear and panic cannot be undone. He’s open like a landscape, and he’s an open field. He hates when he loses control.  

How could Severus have been so stupid? How? How?

Besides, Potter’s house is humongous. Maybe Severus's dry eyes, the bitter taste of this moment, and the blistering headaches are throwing him off. Usually, Severus is stuck with rooms with off-white ceilings, hotplates on counters beside improvised kitchenettes, minerals and alcohol lamps, and his places normally aren’t big enough to breath in.

This place has bay windows, velvet drapes, a foyer that could fit rhinos, the floor is gleaming in the silence. It’s all modern and beautiful.         

He's slinking down the hall, hoping to be quiet. Potter is in his room, reconsidering his life. Would he drown himself in the bathtub? It doesn't matter _to_ Severus.

It's too annoying to consider when he's lost when taking a turn in a hallway. How does one have such a huge house _that_ one gets lost going to the bathroom? Potter has always _been_ colicky about fame and having attention, and of course his haven, his home is a grandiose copy of his personality.

Severus shouldn't _think_ about this! He shouldn't be in Potter's house in the first place! How could Severus have been so damned stupid? He isn’t meant to be stupid. His PHDs, Bachelors, his other awards should tell him otherwise.

He's still brooding when he finds the open plan of the kitchen. Of course it's beautiful; sleek and silver. There's a island of marble, and the appliances come out of an Ikea. Sunlight comes through, making everything have a glow. It leaves his skin red.

Then the particularly strange Luna Lovegood stands at the stove, humming a distant classical song that Severus does not know himself. She's drumming her fingers on the counter and it makes her oddly chosen bunch of rings and bracelets clink together. She's also wearing strange clothing, which is nothing new.

In school, she was the most distracted _and_ eccentric child he has ever observed. Neville Longbottom _comes_ second.

Seeing Potter was like seeing a sad nightmare come to life. Seeing Lovegood was _like_ stepping into the future. It gives him a dose of reality.

Time passed and he's _old_. Really _old._

Now, watching Lovegood barefoot, looking patient for her beverage whilst lounging was truly a sight to behold. Seeing her making a cup of tea for herself was the most normal thing he's ever seen from the girl's off character.

Why is _she_ here? Potter has _a naturally_ handsome physique. Have… they… been intimate? He slept with Potter only to marry a whoring man? Not that this marriage is _legitimate._  But this gets worse and worse.

Lovegood turns off the burner, moving with the grace and ease of a surreal ballerina dancer, she glides across Potter's kitchen. Lovegood carefully pours the steaming water into a cup. Then, she proceeds in dumping caramel candies, tablespoons of amber honey, and a gross mountain of death and sugar.

Severus sighs internally. Why was he waiting for something normal? From Miss Lovegood? Age has made him hopeful. One of the downsides of being closer to fifty.

“Would you like some? I boiled enough for two,” she holds up two digits.

And she looks older. The pudge of teenhood is gone. Her lips are red, and she's womanly. All he could associate with her is the fact she drew all over _the textbooks_ in chemistry and _played_ with the cobalt. When she wasn't supposed to.

Her people skills have improved. She's being kind. But, her intelligence  is still lacking; what she made _wasn't_ tea. Severus's heart drops to his feet.

Severus says, “No…”

“Oh. Pity, it smells heavenly.” she inhales the sugar.

“I am not the least bit interested in all that smells _heavenly._ ” Seeverus hisses.

“Oh, sir, you should invest in something like it. I always believed you smelled like _bitterness_ and old boots.” Lovegood says cheerily.  

“Lovegood…” Severus says lowly. He wants to say that he's offended, but he doesn’t want to give her any reactions.  

Lovegood casually mixes her beverage and Severus dearly hopes her teeth falls out. Kids were strangely accurate about their criticisms. He always was compared to the grease deep fryers of restaurants since his hair, even in old age, was as manageable as a feral lion.

Before he could retort, like he always did, Lovegood is already prattling on about something else. Talking to her was equivalent to doing integral calculus.    

“Lovely morning, aren't we having?” Lovegood simpers.

Severus looks out of the window. No. Severus dislikes anything sultry and heady, thus the sunshine disturbs him. Besides, waking up by a screaming Potter is never a good way to start anything.  

Severus’s prolonged silence stirs up more conversation, and Severus thinks that Lovegood has no common sense or people skills. There’s something distinctly wrong with those who do not know how to take hints. And worse, those who start conversations. Those people are mentally ill.

Most people are scared of his intimidating aura, his ever-present scowl, and neatly apologize for making eye-contact. And he likes that. It makes his day.

“Professor Snape. Would you like me to get some sandwiches?” Miss Lovegood says amicably.

Why is Lovegood so kind?  

Every second here feels like slices and cuts. He’d much prefer running through a maze of blades and scissors instead of confronting this odd girl— no, _woman_ who is drinking tea.    

All this feels strange and untrue. He doesn’t want to be here. He hates being in the company of students, and those students who were annoyingly bad at Chemistry. It’s not too hard. If people focused, if students cared about their education, then maybe more people would enjoy science—

But he doesn’t want to stay here.

“I don’t plan on staying here.” Severus whispers. “If you could be so kind to direct me to the door, instead of dithering and drinking tea, that would be astronomically better than chatting.”  

Instead of directing him to the door, she sits. “Why ever are you in the kitchen? Why aren't you in the bedroom?” Lovegood quizzes lightly. She rocks back and forth in her seat.   

Well, Severus couldn’t open the windows to jump out of it, and continue with that extremely highly embarrassing move. However, he did find stairs before things got too hopeless.

How did he come to this? Usually, he’s careful slipping through bars, aware of the danger of human contact and kisses. He’s learned to ignore the runs and the laughs and the hustle, but he’s gone home with Potter.

His lips are still swollen, and he feels the heat and feathery touches of his former student! Student! Harry Potter— even the name fills him with venom.

Why is he standing in this huge, huge empirical house? And why was Lovegood acting so casual? He wants to be guarded, but he’s an open book.

“Lovegood, I’m not questioning your sanity or your lucidity, but… perchance, have you heard what happened between your flawed classmate Potter and I?” Severus says so quietly.

The unsure animals in his heart, rattle in their cage.  He doesn’t want to suffer the shame and depression of the reality and conclusion that Lovegood knows… about their drunken times together.

“Oh. Oh yes, I know you both have been up to haughty things, Professor Snape. In fact, I've never seen Harry smile so widely. Harry never smiles unless he's eating, and I try to make him laugh but he doesn't very much like that. When I do it. Maybe it’s because he might choke, I’m trying to be Rowan Atkinson. It's crazy because—”

Lovegood heard them. Them. Maybe he should jump out of the windows! Oh dear God, she was here… Oh gods. Oh, it takes a solid moment to steady his breath.

And Lovegood continues to speak, charmed; “And Harry normally has no one here and he sits in bed, sad, but Professor, you made it better. And for that,” she horribly bows with her tea and her sunshine hair whipping. “I thank you.”    

“Lovegood, if you continue speaking, I will pour the boiling, hot water—”

“Into a cup and make some wholesome tea?” she interjects. She tips her cup up. “Like this, are you sure you still don’t want any? You need builder’s brew, you look faint.”    

Severus wants to throw a concrete building at himself. “No, child, I will pour it into my soul so I could hear the screams and cries of pain over this nonsense you spew. Potter… does not approve of my company. Vice versa.”

“Oh, it didn't sound like it.” Luna says dreamily.

And… this spot is where Severus Snape _died._

“I will take you to the doctors, Professor… no one has to endure pain.” she continues.

“How will you survive the masses of diabetes you shuttle into your body?”

“I say no one has to live in pain, but not everyone gets to live.” Lovegood beams, staring at her sugary concoction and reflection. “How do you exist in a world where pain is not?”  

Severus stares at her for a few heartbeats. _What was that supposed to mean_? What kind of question is that?

People never say things like that… He’s not for hearing people’s problems. Children never came to Severus to confess problems, though a teacher has that role on the wavefront, and this was strange. Kids never say dynamic things to him, that wasn’t in any of his relationships’ dynamics.

Severus stubborn will is learning to bend because he fees inclined to wonder about that comment. And he snaps his will back into place because he has no time to wonder or care. Besides, it’s Lovegood, she’s strange, and arguably in wrenching pain.

Pain. That draws Severus’s undivided attention to the marks on his wrist. A bloody taste fills his mouth, and he wants to say he overshadows the taste of Harry Potter.   

But it doesn't.

Who even writes **_Ephemeral_ ** on wrists? Why? How and where he got the tattoos are a mystery. He will leave, remove this mess, and walk away.

“I’m going to find my proper path to the exit, Lovegood,” Severus looks away. He was mistaken to think that she would be useful. He’s always had to do things his own way anyhow. Besides, he just wants to forget this dawn, this day and the feel of Potter.

His wrist stings, he’s wrenching off the ring. Oh yeah, he got married. After forty-eight years of draining darkness and solitude, he’s gotten married to a former student who is a football player, and happens to be one of the worst, petty children he’s ever met.

  
His heart won’t fold for love or Potter or this marriage. He sits, alone in the winter, and summer and he doesn’t want to have this tattoo.

  
Severus got sloshed and he has to worry about more than an intense hangover, which makes the abundance of sunlight and kindness of Lovegood even more unbearable.  

People are way less intelligent than he first believed SINCE they went into a parlor and got tattooed… He normally holds himself to high esteems but now he’s all disappointed.  

“Tell Potter that this… _ring_ is his to keep,” Severus steadies his breath, and spits out his hair, that keeps on sticking to his lips.

It clanks and vibrates his soul as the ring lands on the table. And he’s not going to admit how free he feels without the thing. He’ll navigate these stupid halls. He’ll ignore the curving staircase that goes to heaven, and the polished wood floors—  

“Luna! DON’T LET HIM LEAVE!” Potter’s voice cascades through the house, between anger and blame. He’s going down the steps with intention. “WE’VE GOT TO TALK! WE'RE NOT _FINISHED_!”

Lovegood jumps and her tea — is it _really_ tea? — splashes across the table.

“Oh no,” Lovegood yelps as the substance releases the smell of sweetness into the otherwise awful atmosphere.

 _Oh no_ is a good expletive. This is so bad. Curses. And Severus spent too much time insulting Lovegood and now Potter's going to come downstairs. And Severus doesn’t know where to run! Curses.     

Through Potter’s ways and thunder, Severus suddenly wonders how he’s going to take shelter Where, actually. Severus’s bones ache and his skin is cold. But Potter knows his house, it is his house— wait, they’re married! Now it partially belongs to Severus. That’s making him stressed.  

He’s going to turn, but Severus hears the worst sound ever; someone falling. Skidding down the stairs, tumbling— Potter yells, and lands at the bottom of the staircase.

Severus is already frozen in place when he sees he’s staring down at Potter. He doesn't even remember moving, or deciding to move for the likes of Harry Potter.

Potter had enough sense to put on a casual pair of denim jeans and a blue shirt.

They are inversed in the moment, Severus casually eyeing the boy for outward, blatant deformities, and Potter letting Severus's acute worry drain away.

He's more _angry_ than concerned.

Potter swallows, ignoring the red tomato his knee — probably — has become. “Stairs… I don’t know how that last, er, step got there…” Potter announces awkwardly.  “Honest.”

That’s the first thing he says? His glasses are crushed, he’s squinting. Severus sighs to himself. _Idiot_. He is surrounded by dundering fools.   

Severus turns away. Potter is alive, _that's_ over with. He's done being mildly concerned.

“The ring is on the table. Don’t worry, we’ll be divorced by Monday. You could ponder why that extra step came from thin air, alone. Unmarried.” Severus says lowly, surely, to convince himself.

He’ll move, and hope he never encounters Potter ever again. Running away, seems pretty fitting. UK is a big place, he will ignore the marriage, yeah. Yeah. Severus turns on his heel, and he’s sure, sure that he will never have to deal with this nonsense ever again. He curses the time when he insists on long jackets because that is the first time he regrets having one.  

“We need to talk. Our marriage is probably more than a sentence or two, Severus Snape. It’s on my arm, afterall.” Potter sneers, holding onto Severus's jacket. Severus could feel the fire burning in his grip, from where he stands.

They glare at each other.

Oh curses, if anyone knew just how much Severus detested the boy, they could say the apex, the maximum height of that hate is achieved at that moment. And that absolute high will never come down.

“Well, until then, Snape, dear husband,” he says mockingly. “Be good, and help me up.”  

How could someone as dim as Potter… marry someone like _Severus_? The fool… That fool. Severus unhappily glares at himself in the reflection of the lustrous, shining  floor because he knows the biggest fool is him, Severus Snape.

×××

It is impossible to enjoy this quiet moment that is across the kitchen as an amber glow careens through the huge bay window. The kitchen is large, breezy, with an open plan. The ceilings are high, with every appliance having a black accent with softer hues of gray and blue blending the scheme together.

Lovegood fetched a spare for Potter's glasses, so Potter's strangely  spiky eyelashes are long and magnified. Meanwhile, they’re all waiting for the next explosive act to happen. Remembering the moment they’re married physically hurts Severus, and he’s not in the process of relinquishing the things that mattered to him.

Lovegood stares at Potter as she wraps up his knee. She's on the floor, like a girlfriend, and playing nurse while they share knowing looks. There's a first aid kit for Potter, who _fell_ down the stairs chasing after Severus. Should Severus be minorly flattered? _Potter_ almost died _for_ Severus.

That blundering idiot. Actually,  two blundering fools, and Lovegood is there and here. She walks around, trying to heal Potter and trying to appease Severus.

Potter's left leg is propped up, and he’s scowling. Severus sits across from Potter, the farthest away.  

They've had enough contact for a lifetime, thank you very much.

Potter’s expressions are interesting. And it frustrates him that they’re interesting since Potter is such a short-tempered person. Maybe it’s tiring for him, Severus, as he’s watching. Or, perhaps, that his expressions oscillate from tender to violent when he looks between Lovegood and Severus.

“Harry, you shouldn’t run down the stairs,” Lovegood scolds him lightly. “There is healing in pain, but you shouldn’t abuse it.”

“I was trying to catch up to a _certain_ _someone_.” Potter says, pointedly looking at the table.  His words are venomous and laced with harsh emotion.

Severus stiffens in his chair.

“If only you put half of this effort into taking me away from work, I wouldn't be infamous for unauthorized _overtime_.” Lovegood smiles, ignoring how the room is suddenly hot.

Potter chuckles. It sounds like a genuine sound. “You _know_ that I can't pull you away. It's your passion.”

“I think getting hurt is yours, Harry Potter,” she taps on his knee.

Potter  recoiles and holds his knee. “Ow. Luna, that _hurt_!”

Lovegood stands up. She puts away the bandages, sterile gauze dressings, and tape. “I’m no doctor, and I can’t bodge a cast, but I want you to be healed. Healing you up would be long.” she says slowly.  “Don't do it again.”

“You did a lovely job,” Potter smiles beautifically. “Maybe your newfound passion could be healer.”

Potter isn’t too deluded. Lovegood actually wasn’t too bad. In his teaching days, labs commanded that there were many, many wounds. Severus was meant to know how to bandage, and save someone. His profession demanded that he knew the WHMIS symbols and first aid.

Severus surely could have helped, but he doesn't _want_ to.

“My knee hurts. Luna, could you give me some Advil? Give me some of the prescribed stuff too,” Potter says loudly.          

Lovegood nods. She looks at Potter, rubbing her hands together. “Are… you going to be okay?” she asks, gesturing between Severus and Potter.

None of them answer. Stupid Potter. Stupid life.

“Professor, I will be back with sandwiches. Harry, I will bring your Advil,” she says loudly. She doesn't know what to do at the moment, so she scurries away with a contrite nod in Potter's direction.

Once she leaves, gray and cold blue replace the orange haze. The chill settles over them, and Potter looks at his knee, turmoil on his face. It’s all intense. There is no evidence of a larger conspiracy that maybe Potter didn't ruin his life on purpose. He looks just as hungover and _wrecked_ as Severus.

Potter glares at the table, and wets his thin lips. “I am not one for speaking out of term—”

  
“Your lips are moving, so one can assume you are,” Severus interrupts him loudly. “It’s amazing what mess you can make, just by walking down the stairs, and talking to yourself.”

Potter gives a smoked look to Severus. Severus knows it's there because he feels the heat. Severus can't look at Potter at the moment. Fair ivory skin with a red neck, black marked arm and silver ring finger. All these colours are going to be the death of Severus. They mean something to him. They were his fault, anyhow.

Minutes pass. Potter has the nerve to press on the table and sniff. Like a dog. The combined boiled carbohydrates are permeating through the air. It smells like a candy shop. It's too sweet to smell. It almost stings the teeth.

Severus wants to say Lovegood spilled her drink, but he doesn't want to. He could stay in this uncomfortable silence. It is tightening his clothes, and Potter makes him feel so violated. Almost like Severus is wearing someone else's skin, and Potter _knows._

But this prolonged one-sided staring contest goes on for a long while. Potter, the idiot, starts rocking on his feet. He's nervous, bouncing too.  

“You and I _will not_ survive the next few days if we don't speak. We should talk.”  Potter clears his throat.

Severus shudders. Nothing good ever comes from the words ‘ _we should talk’._ To achieve true commitment, true chemical miracles, someone must ignore those words. Severus is never scared of confrontation, but those words are lethal diseases.  

“I never wanted there to be a day when we chat and gallivant in your obscenely large home,” Severus sighs.

“At least I have a house.” Potter says loudly. His other leg bounces over and up.       

“I am not homeless, Potter!” hisses Severus. “I happen to be successful, I am only here because I wanted to know if you were dead. You have a hard time doing that yourself.” Severus admits with a look to his stiff limbs, and crossed arms.  

Potter has shock across his face, rippling, and he’s timorous. His mouth hangs open, and he’s blank-faced, mouth slack. “Wh… What? You… cared?”

Severus glares at the boy. Why couldn’t Potter fall down the stairs and knock himself out? Severus doesn't want to answer that question.

“Oh, don’t look like that, I am not completely heartless to let someone die because of their idiocy,” Severus gives a callous look to Potter. “You are a stunning exception, though.”      

Severus’s world and words has some core truth, Severus wouldn’t let someone die. Not even Potter. Severus watches the sunlight glint over the resplendent silver ring. Eh. Potter could really be an exception.

“Sarcasm doesn’t help, Snape,” Potter yells.

“Sarcasm is the new staircase to being transcended.” Severus shouts with equal volume.

“Is it really?”

“Yes. Do you need a second to process? You were always a little slow!”

“Slow? _You're_ the one taking things fast!” Potter explodes. He rocks back and forth, being annoying.

“Whatever is the meaning?” Severus demands. “I don’t recall you making any sense!”

“You drank more than me! You must have a bloody double life since you look just as bad as you did _when_ we were at Emerald Bar!” Harry yells. “You best recall everything. You were the one who fucking proposed! That's what I remember!”

Severus’s head’s pounding. He remembers Potter’s eyes burning him, like he could fix everything. Take on the chore of being with Severus. Lancinating, cruel pain strikes him. And he’s shamed into this silence. His heart aches against the truth.

Potter’s eyes are wide, his nose flares, and he looks excitable. His rage commands the entire room.  Potter isn’t lying. Severus was the one to propose? And another stilted silence comes upon them. Substances are leaking out of him, what else?

How could Severus, propose? To Potter, of all people.

Potter's feet are going back and forth. And the legs of his chair slap against the floor. He’s not wearing shoes. Severus is. All of Potter’s movements and the scraping against the floor has always agitated him. He doesn’t want to be involved in this situation. He’s being playful, cheeky even. Why the hell is Potter allowed to be like this?

It’s irritating the hell out of him. It’s caging his hands, closing around his throat, and hurting him. And Severus proposed to this act. A storm swells, and Potter keeps on adding water and steam to the tempest. Why did Severus propos-

And there’s that relentless sound of the chair! It’s damned irritating!

“Potter, don't rock on your chair.” Severus explodes.

Severus doesn’t know how loud he is until his voice almost shatters the hesitant shell of quiet resentment on Potter’s face. It's like a spiral abyss of trouble, the more he speaks, the more he keeps falling into it.

“What did you just say?” Potter asks, provoked.

“Don't rock on your chair. I hate it. I hate it so much it drives me to the brink of insanity, so, must I repeat myself to your whale-like body? Don't teeter on your chair.”

“Excuse me, Snape, was that an order because the last time I recalled you did that was in school, and you are in my bloody house, you were in my bed too. You don't have ANY authority here. I am not ready for your bland condescension, alright?”

“Out of all the years people have left you alone, you never learnt how to stop jabbering when unasked. Goodness, Potter. You are still an insolent, loud, brat with volume problems!”

“Why does my body on a chair matter to you?” Potter throws his hands up. “You know what? Everything I do annoys you! Even my breathing deters you from wanting to live.”

“I'm glad you've gotten the point now, if I could fly away miles from you, I would.” Severus gives Potter a small look. They’re both sitting in front of each other, trying to be so cold.

“Back at you, Snape. You are the least pleasant person I could think of. Even the devil would be appalled at the way you treat me! So, it doesn't matter when I rock on my chair.”

“I will not allow you to be leaned back in your seat, casually teasing the balance of the universe. My universe. My career. My future. My _life_.” Severus says loudly, red on the apples of his cheeks while Potter's blanch.  

Potter freezes then lets out a long exhale. “But we still got married. _And_ that's that.”

Severus nods slowly. That's fact. It's a horrible fact. Potter stops _rocking_ , feet planted on the floor.

When Potter realizes that Severus hasn't said anything or grabbed Potter by the throat, his green eyes shine. “And I think we should—” he starts.

Suddenly, Lovegood pops back in with an empty yellow prescription bottle. It's empty. “We have to drive to the clinic to get some more.” Lovegood says, looking at the plastic container, all sorry. “And I forgot that Dobby wasn't here. So… no sandwiches.”

“I'm sure I'll survive.” Severus sneers. 

Lovegood brightens. “Really? His sandwiches are to die for!”

Severus sucks on his teeth, in order to _not_ murder her with words. He didn't want the sandwiches in the first place.

Severus sighs. _Why_ is Lovegood here? They were finally making an inch of _progress._

“Luna, are you sure that there aren't more?”  Potter says, a strained expression plain on his face. “We… we were, uh, in the middle of something.” Potter gives Severus a pointed look then one of mild distaste to his tattoo. “Like how to find the people _who_ tattooed us, _why_ , and if they could remove them. Since Snape doesn't want to speak, then maybe _you_ should have that insight.”’

Severus's anger flashes. Severus just wants to process this! Besides. Potter has just as much blame. He's just as belligerent and _silent_ as Severus.

“Have you considered looking at where idiots gather? You have insight into your own kind,” Severus intones loudly.

“ _You_ were the one who proposed, I think your sub-species would know what pastors you would go to!”

They glare at each other. His blood boils. He is _going_ to throw Potter out of a window.

“I could—” Potter stops then hunches over. He takes a few laboured breaths and holds his side. “I… ouch.”

Severus's heart stops a moment. Potter is going to die? Because that would be _morbid_ if it did happen.

“Are you okay?” Lovegood demands, rushing to his side. She's being a nurse and girlfriend once again. “You look pale.”

“UK isn't a ball of sunshine, I get lost in white rooms,” Potter grumbles sarcastically.

Lovegood's serene smile stops. She pins him in her concern, and stares at him harder. “You don't seem very fine.”

“It's okay. I've survived worse conditioning when training for FIFA.” Potter chuckles but it comes out really weak. “It's fine. It was a faff.”

“Those practices were brutal!” she gasps.

Really? Severus snorts, “Brutal? Potter can't handle anything more complex than play time.”

Potter sits up taller. “Play time? Play time?!” he looks irked. “It was harder than your sedentary sitting in a classroom lecturing sleeping students all day.”

“My profession requires a lot of _moving_ .” Severus says back. He usually agrees with people bashing his job, but Potter is wrong. Kids are energetic creatures. It's hard to _keep up_. They are everywhere. They're sneaky, and teaching requires a lot of mental and physical energy. He's usually standing, walking around, supervising. He isn't doing nothing!

“My profession means I sprint up and down a field every day almost two hundred times during a single practice.” Potter throws back. “Can you measure up to that?”

That sounds like hell, but a smirk curls onto Severus's lips. “Well, we both don't make very good choices, don't we?”

“ _Yeah_. One of mine was you!” he scoffs.

Severus scrunches up his expression. Marriage is normally a choice. But Severus proposed, and hence, they're suffering. Especially _Potter._ Moving around his torso seems to be the problem.

“Your ribs…” Severus says lightly.  “When you fell, did you tumble?”

“It felt like tobogganing on razor blades,” he says quietly.

Severus sighs. _Idiot._ “You might have bruised your ribs. You definitely will visit a medicinal room, hoping that the NHS hasn't completely soiled itself, and I shall go on with my life.” Severus stands up.

“We're not finished yet.” Potter slams his palm on the table, in all of his rough anger. “Damn, I didn't know you were a _runner_.”

“I do not do that!”

“Oh, so you _flee_ instead,” Potter says  mockingly. “You have to stay!”

“I've spent more time than I wanted to here.” Severus is having an aneurysm, just saying the words makes this real. “I will contact you—”

“You don't have my number!” Potter practically yelps.

“I will find _a way_.” Severus interrupts. “I will contact you with the details of our annulment.”

“We could discuss this like _adults_ , and I will call my lawyer. Then we'll see what we could do.” Potter says. His eyes are dark, forestry, and startlingly wide. “I'll drive, talk, and you'll never have to hear from me again.”

Severus grimaces, the words tap dancing in his head. “That is the nature of this drive?”

He nods. “That is the nature.”

“Then I shall drive.” Severus announces.

“No!” Potter shakes his head. “I wouldn't want to trust you with the wheel? What if you say a comment and _we both_ die?”

“I'm not you. I wouldn't perilously put both of our lives in danger.” Severus rolls his eyes. Seriously.

“There you go with the belittling me! I'm not in your classroom. You cannot order me around like this, and— and ACT all superior.”

 _Superior? I like driving_ , Severus thinks hotly.  “Potter, you are in too much pain because of your own doing! You fell down the stairs! I don't feel like negotiating on this!”

“Your word is not law. I can drive just fine.” His cheeks warm up and he's painfully stubborn. They're both hard-headed. “And I just wanted _to say_ that I don't want you skittling away.”

“I will not—”

“Oh, you’re escaping.”

Escaping? How many words could he have for _leaving_? Severus starts to say. “That's fitting Potter, while you have turned into a _thesaurus_ , I _will_ drive!”

"No! You _will_ not!" Potter says with equal resolve.

They flash their anger, their resentment and more anger.

“Actually! I _will_ drive,” Lovegood chirps loudly and suddenly.

“Huh?” Potter asks, audibly panting, and riddled with incredulity.

Snape gives Lovegood a mild once-over of the same incredulity. What?Potter wants to protest, and Severus gives her a dour look.

“I want to drive _Snape_ _—_ ” Potter amends.

“Bagsy.” Lovegood says, sounding like a distraught bird with a high voice.

“Bagsy?” Potter repeats, blinking.

“I want to d-drive. So, I call bagsies!”

There's an uncomfortable silence that is so loud. And Severus is shocked by how _stupid_ Lovegood is. That is such an _unfounded_ and inappropriate comment!

 _This is going to kill me_ ... _They are going to kill me_ , Severus thinks loftily. _Spiritually, mentally, and physically._

“This isn't a school yard, and the choice to drive _isn't_ being offered like an apple or an accessory from someone's lunch packs. This is serious!” Severus informs the girl staring at the two men.

“I don't see why not,” Lovegood tells Severus loftily, then chants like a child, “so, bagsy. Bagsy. Bagsy—”

“Luna—” Potter tries to reason but she stomps her foot.

“Bagsy!” she practically shrieks. Her volume rattles Severus and the normally quiet girl isn't one to show her anger like Severus and Potter.

Potter stares at Lovegood. “Luna…” he says, quiet green eyes watching her carefully.

Lovegood gives a flustered shrug, one of her sleeves falling off her shoulder. “What? I will drive.Driving in the morning, hearing the birds glide with you during a drive is pleasant. And I am not for random bickering. Even now—”

“Random bickering?” Severus repeats. “This isn't random bickering, this is Mr. Potter being _stubborn_ and stupid. Would you like to release his _wild_ impulses in the public?”

Lovegood hesitates, surprised by Severus's wrath in the tone. Severus shifts to the acidic glare of Potter. “You can't walk right now. How will you drive?”

He needs two feet. Potter doesn't have control over his tomato leg.  Potter actually sees some reason, and Lovegood seems like a cornered rat. She looks between Potter and Severus while having a dead shuffle, trying to find the middle.

He claps his hands together. “Okay. Luna will drive because she's better.” Potter says resolutely.

“At driving?” Severus suggests.

“Just better.” Potter huffs.  

Severus shakes his head. _What an imbecile._

Lovegood just laughs awkwardly. “I'll get the keys. We’ll go on a nice drive, okay?”

Both of them grumble, Severus especially.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha. I should have posted this way earlier.


	3. Extending The Conversation

 

**Extending The Ephemeral**

 

-THREE-

Extending The Conversation

 

**HARRY**

Luna is too focused on the driving that it shocks Harry. She wouldn't keep up with simple instructions and conversations when they moved in together. She has a gloss over her eyes, and she's staring off into space. Or, rather, just _staring,_  lifeless. 

The normally distracted woman would use red buses and cabs since she disliked driving. Everyone knew that the tube was grim, that everyone was packed like fish. However, Luna could handle it astonishes Harry.

Rolf would be a control freak about _driving_ and it was their time to be _together._  They would yell songs from The Black Flags and Neil Diamond _then_ blow bubbles out the window. Crazy.

Now she's alone in the intimate space she shared, in his spot, too. It's final that Rolf is gone. Cruel.

She only just started going out again. Sporadically. She would embark on trips of solitude, and sit and sketch the surrounding stretching nature. Then she would come in, choose a corner of the house, and stay a statue. Curl around herself and be pale, thin, eyes closed and ghostly. She wouldn't meditate either. She wouldn't move too much, she'd simply sit, and reminisce of Rolf.

Harry knows grief, and how alone one becomes. He knows exactly how it feels, but her grief may be different since Rolf and Luna were _married_. Harry likens it to losing Ginny, but that seems shallow.

It was quite sad. She looked _dead_ the first time Harry saw her like that. He's subtly been watching her state of mind and actions, hoping not to come to the conclusion she'd take her life.

Not that Snape cares about any of that when he says small comments about her driving.

Snape is just as rude as the day he first stepped into class. He humiliated Harry. So much.  Now they're together forever.

Because of _Snape._ And he refuses to acknowledge that fact or cooperate in the slightest bit. They can't even choose who will drive, how could they decide to marry?

Harry struggled towards the Hummer he was gifted by an old mate on his team. No joke, he would trust his team member with his life and his money. Now he couldn't see them, as they were succeeding. He wants to say that _he wants_ to be with them. But he can't face them; he let them down, he fucked up. It feels like he's terminally ill. Like he's come down with the lurgy.

He loved his team (family) and his job. His old job didn't feel like a job, anyhow. It felt like taking a fresh breath of air. _Air_ that normally would be ironic, since running all the time takes someone's breath. Harry felt free, free from his parents’  deaths, free from the tabloids obsessing over him, and how much he wondered if Ginny loved him. It was an escape.

Nothing bad could reach him on the field. Grass remains to mark his second home and is his favourite smell. He ignores what Snape smelled like that morning. He swears.

He doesn't mind forgetting the stress of Fitness Tests and leaving, far, far away for tournaments, but he misses the memories, the support system he got, and the winning goals for his team and country.

His heart doesn't beat so fast, and he doesn't know if he could _ever_ run. It wakes him up, his every hormone. It gently tears him limb from limb, that he isn't _able to live._  Everything he touches, everywhere he goes, everything he sees is about how _he can't_ do what he loves.

When he played, he was a hero, he felt no pain. Now, he's woozy from the pain meds, and he fell down the stairs— AGAIN! He's never going to heal. He's so used to ice baths and such, that now getting one wouldn't do _anything_ to soothe the fiery anger he has for Snape.

Speaking of pain, everything around his body _hurt._ Aches and throbs appeared, bruises worse than any of the ones on his legs during away practice. He's never thought he'd feel anything worse than the dreaded turf-burns and cleat marks.

Snape is pain, essentially, when there's too much of no sound. The AC is on, Snape drums his long fingers on the window, soundlessly.

He can't _stop._

Harry watches the back of Snape's head, and his tattoo. It's just… How did the tattoo bloke, get the colour of Snape's hair right? His hands are covered in sun. He also has brought back the dark goatee, which is duelled with his thick hair that flops to and fro.

He can't believe he held… Professor Severus Snape. He tasted him all night. With Snape shining so bright, in the romance under the blue moon. Smooth cheeks. Smooth nape that's elegant. That's weird. They got along so well the night before and now they're back… to this cycle.

“If you could stop your peering, that would be mildly appreciated,” says Snape loudly.

“It's bright outside,” Harry supplies since the Snape suspends him in silence.

 _Harry wasn't staring!_  He has no interest in that!

Harry wants to avoid this fast-moving disaster. He scrambles for words, still gobsmacked at the fact Snape _felt_ his — what Harry feels — implicit, unnoticed stare. He feels like he's stepped on the net with cleats, and he can't  _escape,_  er, not in time before his mates call him lame or tease him until the ends of the earth.

“It's really bright out,” Harry says hotly.  It does justify— what he wasn’t doing, yeah?

“Innit.” Luna smiles, beaming back at her sister, the sun.

“That's what I was doing. Looking outside,” Harry clarifies, ignoring how his cheeks burn.

He's so bad at pretending to not be _thinking_ about Snape. His parents are famed _actors_ why can't he just act, have a little bit of their blood in him?

“Not everything is about you.” Harry throws in, just to throw Snape off.

Snape makes a sound, something like a snort, because Snape doesn't know how to laugh, or spread joy, or laugh. It would pollute the airways, surely, or brighten up the century.

When Snape's not talking like a deadbeat, does Snape have _good qualities_? Good qualities at all? Or his personality is just a list of _details_ no one cares about. Obviously. _Snape_ is just unpleasant. Even just sitting here, he radiates mistrust and bad feelings.

“Professor, Harry lied _when_ he said that practices were easy,” Luna says, nervously staring at the steering wheel and at Snape's snobby face.

“There is a story there…” Snape says, speculation clear on his face.

Luna nods, gulping when they make prolonged eye-contact. She's visibly preparing herself _to confide_ in Snape — of all people — and _tell_ Harry's secrets.

Harry looks at Luna in the mirror sharply. Why is she _doing_ this? They shouldn't talk. Harry says, “Not one I care to relive—”

“Then let it rest,” Snape rolls his eyes. “Why should I hear ramblings of people chasing around a ball?”

Luna doesn't let it rest; she speaks with care and precise affection. “Harry,” Luna looks at Snape with strong interest then, “had ice-baths every night. The water would turn red, _and_ he's had to do the same thing again and again. I reckon, it was brutal. Don't _let_ him have an ice-bath because _of you_.”

There’s a subtle weight to his words. Harry doesn’t know.

Snape also feels the weight. “I beg your pardon, Miss Lovegood— _him_ tumbling down the stairs was his fault…” Snape defends himself with the confidence and grace of a lawyer.

“I'm not talking about the stairs,” Luna says, gesturing to Snape's wrist he keeps on looking away from.

The silence gets weighted and _unbearable_ again.

Luna tenses up when accelerating, checking the meter and mirrors constantly. She didn't want Harry to die _because_ he was arguing with Snape _and_ Snape does not want to perish because Harry would probably _swerve_ off the road…

Luna really didn't want Snape to leave sans a talk with Harry. She's really concerned too; she doesn't know the area too well since arriving... She never got out, but she's driving. She really offered to drive, which is kind of sweet and endearing.

Harry is touched Luna wants Snape and him to get along so well, but they are newlyweds. Harry scoffs internally, but they are best miles apart. Besides, this will only end. And Snape wasn't _kind_ to Luna either. He remembers Luna _not_ being able to face the raging storm Snape kicked up. She'd lower her head, and nod, or just not pay attention entirely.

She's being so direct!

Snape is still gritting his expression. “What… do you mean?”

Luna looks at Snape for a moment. Thoughtfully. “Harry's got a bunch of accents overseas, he even went to France—”

“Ah. Good. He could terrify the French and leave me alone.” Snape mutters under his breath.

_That bastard!_

Luna ignores Snape's latest comment and looks forward. “I'll have you know that marriage is _best,_  and it is pure. It is light and kindness. I know things get the best of you both sometimes, they do me too. But marriage is sacred. I think mine was an oak tree, but yours can be an acorn. We don't have _time_ to waste, at all, as squirrels.” Luna says loudly.

Snape doesn't have anything smart to say. Harry doesn't have anything at all. Oak trees? Acorns? Why is she talking about _animals?_

“Lovegood—” Snape sits up in his seat. “I don't know what you expect me to _do_ _—_ ”

“Oop. I'm looking away from the road for too long.” Luna gives a wink to Snape. “Don't worry, I'm paying _good_ attention.” Then Luna talks about everything other than what she said about acorns and oak trees.

Snape looks resigned when she prattles on. The ride _continues_ in silence. Harry doesn't dare look at Snape after that.

Ever.

×××

 

Snape has long hair and even longer strides, as persistent as a wildfire when he goes ahead. He slams the door and bullets away.  

“Snape, Professor Snape— you have to _wait,_ ” Harry calls out loudly.

Snape continues as if he had never heard Harry, dodging cars as if he could go through them. It's kind of haunting and infuriating to watch him prance around while Harry shouts for him like a maniac. People haven't noticed him yet. Thank God… What's his deal? He's rushing across the parking lot, long black clothing rushing after him in the sunny heat.

"Why'd he run off like that?" Harry audibly demands.

“I told him that I would start crying in the car.” Luna chirps up with some giggles in her sentence.

She wants to _cry._  Like cry? Harry looks back at her in alarm. “Cry?” Harry echoes, sounding like a bird. His voice seems strained.

Luna stares at him from beyond the window. “He never was good with crying people.”

“No. I don't reckon he's good with people in general.”  Harry sighs.

They chuckle for a moment, bitterness in Harry's throat being caught. He can't believe that he was involved with Severus Snape.

She reaches out through the window to play with his collar. Just like Ginny. “You should go after him,” she whispers.

Snape was snarling like a wounded dog, muttering curses and atom names. He obviously doesn't want Harry there. He was wicked and vile.

Harry gives Luna a small look. “What'd you do if you were married to the Grinch himself?”

His questions sends an array of questions through Harry. Luna doesn't really care much for the drama he had with Ginny, but listened. She normally had enough intuition and interpersonal skills to help him. She gave advice in tune with him and extrapolated what he couldn't see.

However, Luna wasn't there for this present relationship— or _whatever_ these petty series of snide remarks was. Luna had a good marriage. They were that annoying couple, laughing into each other's mouths and such. It's not fun to be a widow.

Luna smiles, and strangely, her dreamy and abstract way. “Realize that the Grinch's heart grows,” Luna replies effortly. She’s already cloying.  

Harry groans at his question. Luna's got the biggest heart he knows aside from Hermione and Remus. Why’d he have to say anything?  

“The Grinch is green, Harry. Professor Snape, he's got a closet full of black clothing. I think he's nothing like the Grinch.” Luna shrugs offhandedly.

“Have you and I _watched_ the same movie? They're the same.” Harry exclaims. Just _less_ hairy. How does Snape not have _any_ body hair? Harry's gotten over his lack of hair in his teens.

“I don't think children's tales apply to this situation. No one would touch him with an eighty-feet-pole. That must give you a mild idea of what treachery he's capable of.” Harry mutters to himself.  

“Ah, your pole _has_ touched him, though.” Luna laughs softly.

Harry turns away quickly. “Do not mention that.” His face burns and burns and burns.

She ruffles around in the car, giving him sunglasses and a golf cap. She corks it onto his head and nearly breaks his neck with the force. She's naturally light and gentle, but she's wiping away the discomfort in his eyes.

He wishes that he didn't have to conceal his identity, hold all of his wealth, and his face. Oh. He wants to be out in public without blogs and such gossiping about him.

“You are a star, you know,” Luna says. “I go to bars and hear the chatter of _Lily Potter_ and James Potter's kid. They treat you like rare cheese and unicorns. I don't want you to be cornered.”

Harry sighs to himself. He doesn't want to be apart of the whole Potter Legend, as he calls it. He didn't take up acting as his main job because he hated the attention he grew up with as a child. He even got his famous scar _because_ he was playing around on the set of their movie Beau, Core Valet and Floor Cleaner. Iconic British movies. Instant classics. The bloody parliament complimented his mom.

Beau got popular overseas _and_ had immense commercial success even though the movies came out in the 90's and early 2000's. Everyone wanted to be Simmons, Harry's father's role, and Lady Oria from Beau.

Damn fame. Damn movies. Damn box office. Damn the Wikia page that exacerbates the problem!

Why—

Suddenly, Luna pokes his left eyebrow very hard. If he moved too much later than that, Harry would have a bloody eye, he would be blind.

Luna's pulling back to honestly catch his attention once again. “Harry? Harry? What're you thinking about?”

Harry just imbues his suffering into concentration and nods to her. “I'm here.”

 _Unlike my parents… Now's not the time to be bitter. Now isn't,_  Harry scolds himself. These thoughts would gladly break his heart.

And Luna's so concerned. So again; “I'm here, I’m here.” he whispers.

She nods. “Good.” Luna just gives him another calm smile. “Harry, I wasn't lying completely when I said I would cry in the car.”

Huh? She grasps him by the shoulder after giving him his wallet, phone and a cane. The cane falls onto the gravel, and he barely manages to pocket his phone.

Harry instinctively grapples at his— yes, his car door handle, but the familiar _tock_ of a sound reaches his ears. _She wouldn't_. She locked the flipping doors! Crossed, Harry stares at Luna through the tinted windows. What's the big idea?

“If you are having problems— Luna, I could help you—” Harry tries to say but Luna is rolling up the window.

“I can’t hear you.” Luna whistles.  

Harry pins her in a look. What’s this all about? Harry can’t face Snape all by himself. He knocks on the window pane, panic rising in him like a bad melody.

“Luna! I—”

She dismisses him for a while until she suddenly remembers he exists again. “Shoo, shoo. Harry, you have to go speak to your doctor and Professor Snape. You are married.” she says loudly.

Harry can’t believe this.

“I thought you couldn’t hear me,” he notes.

She taps on her ear, responding to ALL of his anger with actions. They have this barrier between the two, and he sighs. Fine.  

“He’s expecting you, or rather, your decision,” she whispers. “And I'm going to wager that's the most Grinch thing you could do, take away his Christmas.”

Squinting, with his cane, _and_ his golf hat, _and_ sunglasses.  

×××

Snape could have hell, instead of Christmas.

Harry tries not to feel too irritated as he reclines in his chair. This is awfully tense and awkward. There are sharp pangs in his chest, and he's having difficulty taking deep breaths, but that may be because of Severus Snape.

Snape's right there, inspecting everything with a bland look in his dark eyes. Instead of a physician, couldn't they go and see and a psychiatrist? Dr. Smith says everything Harry needs with genuine care. It's as obvious as the brushes of gray strands his dark hair reveals.

Harry lays on the doctor's table/bed that has a film of crinkly paper. Awkwardly loud and exposed, what he feels. His golf hat and sunglasses ( his protection ) are on the table, and he’s fidgeting. He only came here because Luna would drive, and he needs Snape to admit he was terribly wrong.  

The ceiling is beige, the clean designs making Harry feel like he's inside of a spa. He'd rather be at home. He'd really rather. It's his knee that doesn't worry Harry's good doctor, it's Harry's ribs that show some sort of slow slide towards bothersome news.

Dr. Smith leafs through Harry's medical papers, a big stack, and looks at Harry. “You're still in the acute inflammation stage. Do not do anything strenuous.” Dr. Smith says quietly, in warning of something bigger.

Harry shifts, feeling like someone stepped on his ribs, mistaking the bone for the ground. “Is there anything… else that I would have to tell you?” Harry dodges Dr. Smith’s gaze.  

“Tell me if you have trouble breathing in, and if it hurts coughing, sneezing or speaking. If there are more bruises, swelling, tenderness and if you have some bad reactions to the medicine. Don't hesitate, okay?"

Harry nods. “Sorry, doc. For… For falling down the stairs. I know someone else who should apologize,” Harry adds, not looking at Snape.

Snape has a huff of indignation that Dr. Smith doesn’t notice. Harry smiles to himself, despite all the shit that he’s in. Snape mutters to himself, too.

“Falling down the stairs is more common than you think. Don't beat yourself up,” Dr. Smith’s effete tone takes on a more stern note. “Seriously.”

Harry awkwardly laughs, hand clenching his prescription. He clenches his ribs. "I won't."

Dr. Smith pauses to inspect Harry. He looks stern and complex. It fills him with righteous anxiety but then his expression smooths out, exponentially.

“Alright,” he smiles. “I trust you. And we'll get something to ease the pain, yeah.” With that, he turns again on his chair to write some more stuff. He always writes notes on his chart.

Dr. Smith was the only doctor who could handle Harry's outbursts of rage concerning his sport career and injuries. It was quite hard not to notice hid temper has admittedly gotten worse. He hasn't been able to blow off steam, through working out, laughing with his mates on the bench or watching football.

Normally, when Harry was super stressed, he widened his training regime and was too exhausted to be anxious, threatened, and he fell into a dreamless state at the end of the night. It helped.

It's a way to cope, and he lost that mechanism. No, he's lost the machine and the power source.

“Aside from your ribs, your prescription, are there any more problems?” Dr. Smith brings up, pressure in his voice.

Dr. Smith liked to say that Harry was one of the most unforthcoming patients he's ever treated. Harry internalized his pain, it's who he is. Having to bring up his bones and bruises and aches to someone, about his sports injury was mildly embarrassing.

Besides, real football players play through the pain. He didn’t need to bring it up if not thinking about it made it go away.

And…

And... Snape is _right_ there. How the hell is he supposed to be honest?

"Nothing bad's going on," Harry says offhandedly.

Medical stares eye Harry dubiously. "Are you sure? No muscle weakness, joint pain, difficulty extending your leg?"

"No."

Dr. Smith frowns.

"Dr. Smith, I tore my ACL two times, it was nothing. This is nothing, too. I'll survive." Harry smiles disarmingly but that doesn't seem to make Dr. Smith any less concerned.

"Harry, anterior cruciate ligament tears on the third grade have some unpleasant, even life-changing consequences. I know you are an athlete but that isn't something to be comparing this to." Dr. Smith says kindly. He nods once to Harry. "Take care of your joints more, yes?"

Having a torn ACL was normal for football players. It's second nature. Internalizing his problems worked.

"Your kneecap patella had a fracture, and it dislocated too easily. It caused major discomfort, and we had to remove some of the bone. Your kneecap serves as a shield, but it's taken a lot of damage many times. Do you remember the surgery?"

Oh. That was hell. Sitting sedentary, stressed over whether or not he'd get his fucking leg amputated and the pain—  oh, shit. The pain.

It was weird to have those metal clips, and their doctors always came in to check up on him. Some of the checkups required a shirt, but usually, they told him to take them off. He did have abs and core strength at the time of the accident, but their swooning giggles was too much.

“It was a partial parallelogram, yeah.” Harry blinks, bleary in his memory. It was a haze of opioids, legs lifted on some crane and a whole lot of emotional pain. And Ron, who sat at his bedside, smelling like VapoRub on his glued carrot shreds for a beard.

Dr. Smith looks at Harry, soft and patient, but calculated as a doctor could be. However, Snape is here…

Snape, who had following the conversation for the lesser half, snorts loudly. It's as unpleasant as someone sneezing/blowing their nose into their hand in the tube that is British transport.

“Yeah. Half of a damn off-balance square, right,” Snape says, like a snob follower of his new religion _Snobbism._

In the next fifteen minutes, Dr. Smith inspected all of Harry's knee and prescribed him with more knee surgery rehab. Fucking drag, they are. Harry doesn't want to do _ANY_ of that, but doctor's orders.

“Are there any problems with you that I could help you with?” Dr. Smith swivels around on his chair after tapping away on his computer for a little. He faces Snape.  

Harry is about to protest, and move, but he’s too annoyed. He might even bat Snape in the arm just so he wouldn’t say anything so inflammatory. Harry is not a baseball player and Snape would just say what he wanted anyway!

So, Severus shifts, considering the question seriously. “When I think of _a certain_ someone, I clasp my head in pain.”

Dr. Smith's eyebrows sew together.

This monster man of snobbism is trying to ruin Harry’s appointment that he caused! He's so damn petty. He can't even knock it off for a professional doctor! What a blooming blighter.

Harry glares at Snape. “Oh, is that so?”

“Yes, doctor, it is much of a dire pity,” Snape says pointedly to Dr. Smith.

Anger swells with hate. “If a _certain_ _someone_ wasn't trying to flee prematurely before they spoke, then that certain someone's _bloody_ partner wouldn't feel ANY pain.”

Dr. Smith glances between Harry and Snape. He looks speculative then lost then speculative again. “I'm sorry… but am I missing something here?”

“No,” Harry declares.

Dr. Smith is shocked. “No?”

“No,” Snape repeats conclusively.

Dr. Smith is more confused. “Uh,” he scratches the back of his neck. He doesn’t know where to look in the room until he looks to Harry. “How exactly did you fall down the stairs?”

“Yeah,” Harry glowers at Snape, keen and persistent in his accusations. “Why did I fall down the stairs, huh?”

Snape glowers back at Harry with the flames of some inferno tucked in Mars.

×××

 

Ravanna Kalop is a miracle lawyer. Harry got off of the phone with him just a while ago before Snape got a headache, and Harry’s overheated from yelling too much.

Harry has a soaked cloth to his head, just as Snape has an ice pack. They sit on a stretcher along the busy wall of the corridor. It was awfully busy, here. Since NHS has been trash the last few months, chavs are always in the government, skimping out on their service to the people.

Besides, things are getting shittier—  especially _estate_ when life gets more expensive. Taxes are going up, and people are moving, no wonder it is so much busier.

Harry can't be stressing out about the world when he's feeling the cooling chill of the soaked cloth, dripping onto his collared shirt. The sunglasses make the room dim, and Snape… Snape's linen scent and loamy cologne makes Harry sweat a bit. Harry is too chaffed to say anything.

Snape's drooping expression and stiff posture makes Harry think that he's literally the only one dealing with a hangover. It's damned irritating.

“Just so you know, the next time you give me a migraine, I will for _sure_ send you a medical bill,” Snape says snidely.

“Can I send you my medical bill _for_ my knee _and_ ribs?” Harry demands back.

“I don't want you knowing where I live,” Snape says, eyes finally opening to give Harry a muted look.

"But you were eager to meander in mine, yeah. 'S that why we ended in my bed, huh?” Harry asks quietly, his voice almost lost in the chaos of the clinic.

Kids running around, patients in pain, computers and heart monitors bleeding noise. It's all a bit much. Snape is a bit much.

If Snape weren't so pale, so close and so Snape (Snape could have been a proficient librarian with his Vulcan hearing— not that Harry's giving a compliment or anything. Pfft), he wouldn't have heard Harry's comment.

Snape is using the intensity of the sun in his poignant peering. It's burning Harry's left ear and striking his temple, but Harry becomes a soldier. For some odd reason, and continues his half-baked spiel.

Harry removes the cloth from his eyes, making his eyelids feel a little dry and a little cold. “I think it's amazing that marriages could last,” Harry finally says, clearing his throat.  

The base of Harry's neck, Snape claimed little hotspots there like the damn ring of fire. It was passionate, grossly sincere and greatly confusing, just how he sets off little earthquakes in his chest.

It's so closely surpassing what Ginny, Harry's little firecracker made him feel, that it scares Harry. His chest is about to burn, but he can't stop from spilling his guts out— he hates throwing up.

“Huh?”

"Don't play dumb with me," Harry looks at his tattoo and turns his wedding band. “Because we got married. How fucked up is that? Don't you think it's strange that we got rings? And the fact we… kissed and all that? We called each other in the night time. Night time, like bats, who can’t see— and maybe that’s why we did what we did. But you told me to hold you until all of your bad thoughts would… turn good,” Harry wet his lip, cheeks heating up. “And you smelled like—”  

Ugh, damn. The burning spread. It's oozing to the first layer of skin. He can’t speak. He can’t speak now, all that gathered courage is falling between his fingertips.   

“I don't want to be married to you,” Snape admits.

"Me neither," Harry says quietly.

They’ll be single, out in the city pubs, untanned ring fingers with this angry, hostile title and label above their heads; divorced. It’s so, so shocking. He was a married man! And all Harry’s doing is fighting with his… _gag_ … partner.

They begin to go over the words in mind and in the heart. Harry doesn't want to be with Snape. At all.

"When I said I would show you life, I never meant the married one."  Harry finally gathers enough courage to look at Snape directly without teenage-level confidence. "It's strange," Harry adds.

"Why is that strange?” Snape demands with his usual search for answers to equations and problems people like Harry pose.

Harry looks forward, realizing the cloth in hand was dry. How long had they been sitting, stewing and seething against each other? How long was that prescription going to take… to fill? 

Harry ceases to make conversation for a little pause. _To admit I made a mistake like the biggest one ever is nothing compared to how this will affect our separate, unmarried lives after we get their marriage annulled, is strange,_  Harry notes in his mind. Would their wedding album be a ghost? Do they have a wedding album? Will Harry ever know what type of flower he rolled around in to get the short end of the stem?

He’s so relieved.

“Every time  I look at you, I hear church bells. We passed a church, it's noon, and I know, I know, but it made me think of you." Harry finally gathers enough courage.

Snape removes his ice pack, one eye closed, and the other wide and opened. He’s following Harry’s words, but he’s massively silent, too. It’s unnatural.

“Church bells, Mr. Potter? What we may or may have not done was… far away from holy in some people’s books. Why associate it with something like that?”

Harry sighs. “Marriage. People like to get married under church bells and I can assure you that’s what we probably did.”

“Hypothetically speaking, why bring up church bells?” Snape asks casually.    

Harry ties invisible ropes around him and the stretcher. Harry wants to leap off of and throw himself off of a ledge. He must say all of this, no matter how much it hurts and hangs in the air. He had to.

Harry looks over. "When... Uh, you were discussing the annulment, I said you’d give me an address, phone number, and when was the best time to call you, since… we don’t want this. None of us want this. That’s how I feel. We made a mistake…” Harry says, words catching in his throat. “Whiskey makes people… oddly promiscuous and susceptible to… the church bells and ephemeral songs.”

The feeling between them is broken. Marriage doesn’t seem like a simple thing, a simple step, or a constant thing. That’s what Harry’s struggling to say. He thinks he’s gotten it through. The marriage is a misnomer for compromise, and he doesn’t know if he’ll survive that with Snape.

Snape looks considering, but triumph makes his dim eyes brighten. “We drank scotch. It was scotch,” he says.

After… all that… and Snape _only wants_ to correct him? He wants to hit something. Oh. It’s like talking to a damn wall, or open space, or even something so unfeeling and apathetic, radioactive rocks have more energy than him.

And Harry sinks into silence. “After I’ve been mature, you say that?” The last word is laced with deep disbelief.

Snape looks confused, as he’s not wrong. Why was he like this?  Why was Harry so angry, huh? Something is wrong. Snape is wrong. And they’re married! He’ll never be the same. Damn him. He’s so frustrating. Why can’t he stop looking at Harry like a child?

“Well, we drank scotch. I didn’t want you to go further into your delusions,” Snape announces off-handedly as if _that_ were the problem.

“Were you listening to ANYTHING that I was saying?”

It’s eating Harry up, just how upset Harry’s getting. His voice climbs in volume, too. Harry leaps off with the grace of a drunken fish, breaking the ropes and knots.  

They both fly to their feet. It is no longer a fight, it’s some war. Severus Snape doesn’t ever listen to him! It’s a matter of that, and Snape can’t see that.

“Mr. Potter—”

“No, don’t you see why we wouldn’t work? I don’t want to argue with you all the time. Fighting, falling down stairs and stuff and your obsessive need to be right all the time.”

“Mine? I don’t need to be right. It’s your need for attention and pity to be on you, just like your father.” Snape curls the words, spinning them into the atmosphere like a bullet.

James Potter… How does… Snape know about Harry’s father? It wasn’t even the way fans spoke egregiously about celebrities. Snape knew some personal thing that he hated and that _devastated him._ Harry’s mouth hangs before he physically grounds himself back in reality, yet still on a downward spiral into the past.  

“My father?” Harry scoffs. “You don’t care about what I tell you. I can’t communicate with you.”

“You’re too busy hating me to actually do that, so that’s on you, boy. It must be nice to be without the burden of thinking things through.” Snape says, ironically!

Oh. God. Harry’s so mad, he feels it bubbling in his chest with nervous energy. Nervous sounds, too. Harry laughs, the sound coming out of his throat like damn acid. “And, we’re back to you never taking responsibility.”

“I am one of the few most honest people I know. Is that a flaw to you? Honesty?” Snape demands.

“You have many flaws, one of them is cruelty. Honesty is not cruelty.”  

Now Snape trades off in his bitterness. “Oh, we’re talking about my flaws?”

“I’ll always do that, Snape. Always.” Harry shrugs. “Al-ways.”   

And for some reason, Snape doesn't shout back, or do anything. The air gets thick with that one word and that one action. Harry feels something unseeable has changed between the two.

“What… did… you just say?” Snape says, staring at Harry like he couldn’t recognize Harry.

“Always! You never bloody listen to me! ” Harry shouts— oh, they’re still shouting. His voice box feels the strain of violent exercise.

And the energy in the air, all the hospital hostility fades as Snape looks at him blindly.

“Always,” Snape repeats, eyes blank like the first night on earth; no sparkle, no arrogance, just plain and utter solemn fury that only Snape could replicate.

And just like some dull earth, he turns around, on his heel. His long jacket’s tail flaps as his distinguished nice shoes slap against the cheap floor. His exit is beautiful, dramatic and jarring, and Harry hates the fact they were married! Married!   

“Severus Snape! You can’t just flee, like that, what’s wrong with you? We’re married.” Harry belts out from across the hallway.

He pushes the door open and leaves!

So, Snape doesn’t speak, doesn’t stay, and he runs. Wow. He’s really chosen the greatest husband ever.

Ever!

Harry doesn’t want to leave it at that. He needs the phone number and address of Severus Snape. He can’t just— why does Snape think he has the freedom of God? Fuck. This asshole gets to do what he wants! It— why?

He’s going to tear out all of his hair and try to navigate the world through him seeing red. Snape has trigger words— and they’re all unique to the bat Snape.

Damn it.

Snape shakes his head, muttering, _again,_ and  Harry’s chin drops, trembles of anxiety and betrayal in his hand.

After his breathing goes back to normal, Harry just notices a blonde woman, with a hawk-like nose and long limbs stares with her mouth open. He’s glad she’s the first thing he saw because he otherwise would have beaten a wall. Or something much more expensive. This lady calls him back to earth with her shrill voice and ugly scrub in outfit.

Maybe that’s what nurses do.

“Harry Potter, your prescription is ready,” she says.

Quiet plays for a few beats. Harry still stares. Damn his stubborn soul.

“Was that… your husband?” the querulous nurse asks.  

Harry sighs, looking at his ring and the name inked on his skin. Permanently. Permanent. Was marriage constant? No, but hate was. And that was its role; to be more present than love, love, love.

Harry takes the bottle of his medicine and meets Luna. He goes home. It’s settled. He will get an annulment. Yeah. Sounds like a plan.

×××

End Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> Lol. Aint it angsty? They goo through very rough patches. It's preetier when two impossible things test chances and their pride with love. Not that anything happened here. It's a bit of set up before the big bang-- literally and symbolically. 
> 
> With this story I wanted to discover the effects of pride, fame, money, parental influence, the power of the past, and societal pressure. Who of our lovely characters shall be dealing with them? 
> 
> Harry- pride, fame, money, parental influence  
> Snape- the power of the past and societal pressures. And yeah. Boils down to the small chuckles & fluff in later, later chapters.


End file.
